


A Magician's Education in Both Love and War.

by silver_sun



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Peninsular War, slow build relationship, written for js&mn kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/pseuds/silver_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt Mr Norrell is the one sent to assist Wellington rather than Jonathan Strange.</p><p>Mr Norrell and Childermass' adventures and misadventures during the Peninsular War. Eventually Norrell/Childermass. </p><p>Rating change to explicit for/from part 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Leaving the solitude of Hurtfew Abbey with its extensive library of well cared for and correctly stored books had been a terrible error, of that Mr Norrell was increasingly sure.

He had been sure of it upon his arrival in London and then once again upon his introduction to what was termed polite society.[1] For a time matters had improved. His position with the Admiralty had been a source of pride and Mr's Lascelles and Drawlight had seemed only too willing in assisting him in securing the desired level respectability he wished to be accorded, while the arrival of Jonathan Strange and his engagement as his pupil had only seemed to confirm to Mr Norrell that his method of studying and using magic was becoming both a recognised and respectable profession.

Indeed for a period of time through the summer and autumn of 1810 it had seemed that all he desired would occur and that the unfortunate consequences of raising Lady Pole to life would remain the only black spot upon his magical career. As beyond Lord Pole's entreaties to him to ease the madness of his wife there was only one other source of disquiet that intruded upon his newfound optimism: Childermass. 

It has been Childermass who had guided his decision to confront the York Society of Magicians and to shew that magic had indeed returned to England and that he was its most eminent scholar and practitioner. It had also been Childermass who had informed him that coming to London and making acquaintance with Lord Pole and Mr's Drawlight and Lascelles would be of advantage to him. 

Yet as Mr Norrell had secured his position Childermass seemed to grow more contrary in his behaviour to all those around him. His increasing lack of manners and irritability where Drawlight and Lascelles had become a source of unhappiness for Mr Norrell to the point where he had started to arrange for Childermass to be away when the other gentlemen were due to call. 

Even this uneasy peace was not to last, as on a dreary morning when winter was beginning to tighten its grip on London and frost fairs were being planned within the month, that a surprizing event which was to set in motion significant changes to both Mr Norrell's and Childermass' lives occurred. [2]

"There is a letter from the Admiralty," Childermass said as he placed the letter bearing both the seal of Lord Liverpool and of the Admiralty itself on the breakfast table in front of Mr Norrell. 

Letters from the Admiralty were both a source excitement, which he rarely allowed any to realise and consternation, which he was frequently most vocal about. It was a pleasing thing on one hand to know that his opinion was so highly valued in matters of such national importance, however the requests that they made of him had of late become increasingly difficult to accomplish while maintaining the gravity and respectability that he felt magicians should be afforded. 

This particular letter was the most startling yet and Mr Norrell had read it three times with mounting horror before dropping it back onto the table and murmuring to himself, "It is quite impossible. I shall not have it." 

Childermass who had spent this time leaning by the fire to chase the winter dampness from his clothes [3] while being able to watch his employer's reaction to the letter, said, "Do they wish for more sea beacons or for you to replicate Mr Strange's feat of horses of sand?"

"Neither." Mr Norrell picked up the letter once more and shook it as if its mere presence offended him. "They wish me to serve General Wellington."

"That is not so terrible a thing, is it?" Childermass remarked as he approached so that he might read the contents of the letter for himself. "He has favour with the Regent and his friendship may open doors that would remain closed under Lord Liverpool."

Mr Norrell gave him a sour look before crumpling the letter and abandoning it to the table once more. Leaving his seat he began to pace in a distracted manner. "Service under the same conditions should not disturb me so. No, they wish me to serve him in person, Childermass. They wish me to go to Portugal. It is quite, quite impossible," he said with determination which fast changed to an almost childlike peevishness. "I shall not do it. I shall not. They cannot make me." 

Turning his attention to his writing bureau, Mr Norrell seated himself and took out quill and paper determined to right the misapprehension under which the Admiralty laboured. He would inform them in no uncertain terms that he would be of most use to the country were he to remain in London and that he had no intention of being ordered around like a common tradesman. 

Childermass did not acknowledge what his employer had said, rather using the opportunity to uncrease the offending missive and read it for himself. Had Drawlight or Lascelles been present at that moment they would have been most offended with the liberties that he took and been most vocal of the fact. 

As Childermass read his frown deepened, confusion and apprehension uppermost in his mind. "I had not foreseen this," he thought to himself, greatly troubled by the fact. His cards had never yet given him false hope or fear, so he told himself that the reason this turn of events had remained unheralded was that nothing would come of it and the letter would be retracted. 

Mr Norrell said nothing of Childermass' reading his letter, so concerned was he at making his reply he scarce had even noticed it. Finally, with the ink barely dry upon the paper, Mr Norrell said, "I wish you to deliver this to the Admiralty this very morning." He handed it to Childermass with a look of relief on his face, "They shall read it and realise that I am not to be so ordered, and that shall be an end to this nonsense." 

 

[1] Polite was to some extent a misnomer as while voices were not raised nor crude language used, slights, pointed remarks and even veiled threats were considered quite reasonable. This was particularly true when one or other of the parties were of such standing as to be near immune to any form of reprisal. 

[2]  
This surprizingly included Childermass himself whose focus had of late been directed so completely towards other matters, such as finding Vinculus, that he had not considered such a change in their lives. 

 

[3] Childermass had been out of the house before dawn on one of his own ventures that took him into parts of London that were less than respectable.

 

I will update twice a week. Aiming for around 10 parts.


	2. Chapter 2

It was on a damp and brisk morning in early March that Mr Norrell and Childermass left the house in Hanover Square to board the ship that would take them to Lisbon and the war with Napoleon. 

Before this in the months spanning the end of 1810 and into the chill new year of 1811 it had seemed that Mr Norrell's protestations that sending him to be Wellington's magical advisor would be successful. However, as February had progressed and news from the continent became evermore troubling Mr Norrell had received another letter from the Admiralty. It had been polite in the way that such official documents are wont to be, it was strongly worded nonetheless and it informed him that he would do as he was ordered or else he would find his services dispensed with immediately and in there entirety, and that they would then seek to employ Mr Strange in his stead as he appeared more amenable. 

So it had been with great reluctance and not a little fear that Mr Norrell had found himself agreeing to their terms. The alternative, which was to been seen as a coward who turned his back on his own country in its hour of need was unthinkable. The thought of the lost of respect that such an action would bring gave him many sleepless nights, his mind filling itself with fears of the irrevocably damage it would have on peoples willingness to accept his methods. 

Yet acquiescing came with its own perils. Mr's Lascelles and Drawlight had drawn back from their frequent visits as soon as they obtained the knowledge that he was to leave and instead turned their attentions towards Mr Strange, who was by turns both annoyed and a little flattered at their insistence that he was now of the great importance to British security. Despite their absence Childermass' demeanour and frequent disappearances into the city failed to improved, although none found they had the nerve to mention it. 

This continued source of tension Mr Norrell found weighed as heavy on his as the idea of war, but he could not bring himself to leave Childermass behind to maintain his estate and Hurtfew or watch over his books in London. The idea of travelling foreign lands upset him greatly and to attempt it alone he was convinced would be would be utter folly. No, he had told himself, Childermass would have to come with him whether it pleased him to do so or not. [1] 

 

Of the voyage from Dover to Lisbon there is little to be said. Mr Norrell was a poor a sailor as he had predicted he might be and had spent much of the time confined to his cabin in a miserable state of discomfort. Childermass had remained with him during this time and tried to offer what reassurances he could, although the effectiveness of such was rather diminished by the fact that he was suffering almost as greatly as his employer. [2]

It was late in the evening when the sun was turning the plaster and stone walls of the buildings that clustered densely on either side of the Tagus to a warm golden hue that the ship sailed into Lisbon. The docks were filled with the noise and bustle of both a working port and of a military camp. Dry goods, clothing, fish and other such necessities of life were unloaded to mingle with the soldiers and military equipment that were leaving both the ship that had bourn Mr Norrell and Childermass and two others that had recently docked. 

Mr Norrell was one of the first passengers to disembark, eager to have solid ground under his feet once more, even if were not England. Looking rather drawn and uncertain of himself, he sat on a bale of sail cloth on the quayside while he waited for Childermass and their luggage.

He did not have to wait long as Childermass shortly joined him carrying the chest that contained the books that Mr Norrell had felt would be the most vital for his work aiding Wellington. Accompanying Childermass were two of the ships crew who carried the trunk containing Mr Norrell's belongings and an elderly canvas bag, such as that might have belonged to a seaman himself, which contained those of his servant. 

The trunk was placed on the quay with rather less care than Mr Norrell thought was fitting, but such was his relief at being off the ship he decided not to call it to their attention. Childermass placed the chest of books down carefully beside it, and then said to Mr Norrell, "I shall secure us lodgings for the night. I have asked Pettiman," at this juncture he inclined his head towards the younger of the two seaman who had assisted in bringing out the luggage, "to remain with you incase you need anything while I am gone."

Norrell peered at the tanned and wind-burnt youth with suspicion, then without any thought to whether it would cause offence he said, "Is he to be trusted?" 

"I have paid him," Childermass replied as if this should settle any argument. "And I have informed the bosun of what he is doing, and I believe he has greater fear of Mr Dobbs than any one on this Earth, including you or I."

Mr Norrell remained unconvinced that being left alone on the docks was in the best interest of either himself or his books. He looked warily at the slowly darkening and totally unfamiliar city that surrounded them. "How am I to find where you have gone?" he asked and then jumped at the sound of something being dropped further down the docks to splinter on the stones amidst the sound of animated shouting in what he decided must be Portuguese. More nervous than before he added, "I really think that we should remain together." 

"If that is what you wish. I had not thought that you would want to be parted from your books," Childermass said choosing his words carefully to direct matters towards his preferred outcome. "If you trust Pettiman to care for them until our return then of course we shall search together."

"No, no," Mr Norrell said quickly. He left the bale of sailcloth to sit upon the edge of the chest of books, as if he somehow expected it to sprout legs and make its escape if he did not. "I shall stay with them. If they were to fall into foreign hands I can scarce imagine the consequences. No, I really must insist that I stay here." 

"I shall return within the hour," Childermass said, and then with a smile at gaining his own way upon his lips he disappeared into the thronging masses on the quay and into the city itself. 

 

TBC 

 

[1] Were the truth to be told accompanying Mr Norrell to Portugal was not something that Childermass wished to do, at least insofar as he didn't like the idea of either of them leaving England. His place however, and of this he was certain, was at Mr Norrell's side. So when he had been informed that his employer was of the same opinion he had made no complaint. Plans were another matter, Childermass always had a plan.

 

[2] He was a great deal more stoic about it, as shewing any form of weakness which might lead to him becoming the object of anyones pity was something Childermass found far more discomforting that any sickness he had yet to endure.


	3. Chapter 3

Childermass was as good as his word and he returned a few minutes before a full hour had passed, looking pleased with himself and leading a mule harnessed to a small cart. 

“I had begun to think that you had abandoned me,” Mr Norrell said as Childermass halted beside the chest. “You are very nearly late.”

Well used to his employer’s shortness of temper over such matters and aware that Mr Norrell would have spent the time imagining in increasingly great detail what calamities might befall them, he said, “I see nothing occurred while I was away. Mr Pettiman did his job.”

“If his job was to look sullen and remain uncommunicative then he fulfilled his role excellently.” Both Childermass and Pettiman refrained from mentioning that such a description might just have easily been applied to Mr Norrell himself in the present circumstances.

“You would not have wished conversation,” Childermass replied with a familiarity that Mr Norrell rarely allowed any other to have with him. He then handed Pettiman, who looked surprized and not a little discomforted at the previous exchange, another coin and bid him to be on his way. It was something that young Pettiman did rapidly and with great relief as he had found being in the company of a real magician most alarming. 

After Childermass had loaded the cart with their belongings, Mr Norrell relinquished his seat on the chest of books to allow that to be place with them. “The lodgings,” he began rather uncertainly, “They are secure I trust? and free of damp and vermin? and dare I hope respectable?” 

“They are well enough,” came the reply.

“I shall not find myself humiliated to tell Wellington where any correspondence should be sent?” Mr Norrell asked, finding this of the upmost concern in case it should reflect badly on him. 

“They will not,” Childermass reassured him, then paused to lift the heavy chest onto the cart. “Although we shall not remain there many nights.”

“Why do you say that? The war is not closer to the city that we were lead to believe? We are not in any danger are we?” He looked fearfully into the dark shadows that filled the corners of the alleys and windows of the buildings as if expecting Napoleon himself to leap and accost them.

“It is not.” 

“Must you be so obtuse,” Mr Norrell said irritably, then with a sharp look of disappointment added, “I have told you that I shall not have you consulting those cards of yours like some yellow tented charlatan. Can you not see how poorly such a thing would reflect upon me should your dabblings become known?”

A look of weary annoyance briefly crossed Childermass’ face as he leant against the cart. “I have not had the opportunity for such, I have had barely a moment not in your company this past week. I enquired with the inn keeper as to where Wellington or his agent in this city may be found. It is common knowledge here that Wellington left Lisbon some four weeks past and none know if he is like to return.” 

“Then how are we to find him?” Mr Norrell fretted. “It really is most vexing,” at his point a look worry crossed his face as he continued, “Do you believe he has slighted me deliberately, that he does not believe magic to be of use here? Perhaps Lord Liverpool did not stress strongly enough that I was willing aid him to the very best of my abilities.” He looked at Childermass in mute appeal for reassurance as he often did in things that concerned interacting with other people, before added with a hopefulness that bordered on the pathetic, “He surely has heard of my sea beacons?” 

“I doubt there is a soul within his Majesties forces that has not,” Childermass said with wry amusement as was his way with such things. 

“You are mocking me,” Mr Norrell exclaimed, hurt that he would have done such a thing. “Please do not. Not you of all people. I am quite aware how unappreciative the Admiralty have been thus far and I wonder daily what more they could possibly expect of me.” Unhappy with this he seemed to shrink into himself, making him appear a smaller and more uncertain figure than he usually presented to the world. It was with misery in his voice he added quietly enough so that only Childermass should hear, “Now I fear I am to disappoint them again and they shall never forget nor forgive me for it.” 

Childermass listened impassive. He did not apologise for it, nor as was his way did he feel any pity over it. [1] It had not however been his intention to distress Mr Norrell who he well knew was currently of a weaker constitution and emotion than usual following his prolonged encounter with seasickness. 

“Wellington is a busy man,” he said with a kindness he knew his employer needed unless he was to become more fretful and peevish than usual, which was not a happy state for anybody near him to have to endure. “He will have had no plan to offend you, only a more pressing need to make sure the French are kept at bay.”

“I am sure you are right,” Mr Norrell replied, comforted for now, although any that knew him, which was suprizingly few in reality, would know that it would be unlikely to last for any great length of time. 

“Come then,” Childermass said, taking the rope that had been looped through the mules bridle as means of a rein, “It is only a short walk and then you can take supper and rest.” 

The inn itself was a well appointed three storey structure of white plastered walls and tiled roofs. Built around two sides one of the many small squares that seems so common in Lisbon it appeared well maintained and orderly. A fountain splashed in the squares centre and doves clustered so thickly on the roofs as to look like a sudden, strange and feathery snow fall. 

There were a number of officers, British by uniform, sat inside by one of the open ground floor windows, drinking and playing cards, which did seem to lend an air of security to the establishment. Certainly more so, Mr Norrell decided, than it it had merely been ordinary soldiers who were billeted there. 

“It does look well enough,” Mr Norrell conceded as he considered it, then as was his way immediately sought to find fault. “You have not told anyone here what the trucks contain. A foreigner, even a Portuguese who should be grateful to us, should not be trusted as an Englishman would.” 

“I have not,” Childermass said and then he waved over a young boy of about ten to take the mule while he unloaded the cart. “And for you peace of mind, sit, our host is a retired Captain from Hessle. He is a fellow Yorkshireman.[2]” 

Mr Norrell brightened at this information and in one of his rare moments of honest gratitude said, “I should not have doubted you, I cannot think of a time you have played me false.”

It was at moments such as this that Childermass felt an affection for his employer than few thought Mr Norrell could engender in anybody and which even fewer still would have thought Childermass would be capable of feeling. Despite his long years of service he had yet to decide if it was something unwanted, a weakness that he should seek to remove or something so precious that he wish this and more to happen with far greater frequency than it currently did.  
"I hope that to always be the case," he replied wishing it as dearly as he had anything in his life. 

TBC

[1] As a youth, before securing employment with Mr Norrell Childermass had endured many things, few of which he would ever share with a living soul. Pity for his often destitute state had been one of these things, and as such he found little to like about such an emotion. Pity was, to his way of thinking, merely a salve for the conscience of those doing the pitying and of little help or use to the one being pitied. 

[2] While it was true that George Allcorn was a captain, he was not, as Childermass knew and Mr Norrell did not, a military or naval man. He had been a fisherman who having grown tired of his wife (who was herself tired of his gambling) had made a new life for himself in Libson rather more by luck than judgement.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr Norrell’s good mood had lasted until the morning of the following day. A comfortable bed, a floor which did not pitch and roll alarmingly and food which stayed where he desired it to had sealed his favourable impression of their lodgings and his continued gratitude towards Childermass for finding them. 

What would bring this happy state end was to be their meeting with one of Wellington’s representatives in Lisbon, a Quartermaster who was charged with getting fresh supplies and new troops that had been sent from England to where they were needed. Childermass, knowing that this information would be required had left the inn a little before dawn, slipping through the quite shadows of the city as it started to wake for the day. 

He had returned having gained what he had sought [1] in time to ready Mr Norrell for the day ahead. It was a job for which most men of Mr Norrell’s standing would have employed a valet to aid him in getting dressed, shaved and presentable. It had however long fallen to Childermass to accomplish this task, as the last servant to have held that position had left Mr Norrell employ many years earlier claiming that he was the impossible man work for. 

On the occasions when Childermass was away on business the task fell to either Davey or Lucas as the male servants of the house. They took turns on who it should be out of the fact that neither relished the experience any more than they did catching a cold. For his part Childermass had grown not to mind this being one of his many jobs. This had become even more true since they’d taken residence in London, as it become one of the only times when he was able to talk to Mr Norrell openly and without the disdainful gaze of Mr Lascelles lighting upon him for daring such familiarity. 

Once given the news Mr Norrell had fretted that his best clothes were too warm for the climate, for the morning despite being well before noon was already as hot as a summer day in Yorkshire, and that the current humidity from the rain that had fallen during the night would render his wig frizzy and uncomfortable. Propriety however was of the upmost importance, he decided, and consequently he had dressed to appear respectable rather than comfortable. 

They walked, for the Quartermaster and the building which in which he could be found was close enough that it should have taken them longer to secure a carriage than to do have gone on foot. The property was an imposing structure three storey structure with a red tiled roof and a wide colonnaded front which offered shade from the bright sun. 

At the door they were met by a young ensign who, after being shown their papers from Lord Liverpool, escorted them to where the Quartermaster had his office. Woolicombe, for that was his name, was currently occupied there in with a number of ledgers and reports. He was a tall man with an imposing build, his scarlet uniform stretched tight about his barrel chest. 

“So you are the magician who has been sent to help us,” he said in booming voice more fitted to a parade ground than the narrow confines of an office. Mr Norrell was not what Woolicombe had expected, not that he had any clear idea of what an actual magician should look like, nor really the imagination to speculate upon it. However, if he had been been pressed to answer he would not have said a nervous mouse of man in grey wig and clothes that had long fallen from fashion. He held out his hand. “I confess I have little idea what a fellow such as yourself need or what use you may be, but I shall endeavour to help where I may.” 

“I am Mr Norrell, yes,” Mr Norrell replied, finding his nerves at dealing with such situations were quite a bad they always were and as such he horribly concerned that his handshake would be be both weak and clammy, so that he nearly forgot to shake hands at all. “I am here to assist General Wellington in whatever way I am able. I have been lead to believe that you may know where I might find him.”

“He is to be found in the Lines, sir.” 

“Then that is where I shall go,” Nr Norrell replied. He then glanced towards Childermass to see if he were in agreement with that decision and if perhaps he knew what The Lines were likely to mean. Childermass did not reply, but gave a slight nod that indicate he believe that this was the correct course of action. So it was with a little more confidence that Mr Norrell continued by saying, “If you could give us directions we shall be on our way.” 

“Directions would serve you poorly, it is not a place easily found. However, you are in luck, sir,” Woolicombe said brightly. “There are reinforcements for the Lines due to leave at first light tomorrow. You may ride with them if you wish, for I cannot guarantee that I could spare any other for some time.”

“Tomorrow?” Mr Norrell said in great surprize as he had not expected things to occur so rapidly. 

Woolicombe however took this exclamation as eagerness to serve his country and so he said, “Your eagerness does you credit, sir, it truly does. If you wish it I shall not seek to prevent you from riding out this afternoon. But I caution you that it is a hard ride, a full thirty miles and you would lose the light long before you reached the Lines or Torres Vedras.”

At this point Mr Norrell gave Childermass a look of scarce contained panic at the thought of such a journey. Knowing that Woolicombe would wish for an answer, Childermass quickly replied in his master’s stead, “We arrived near dark last night, we have no horses or supplies for such a journey.”

“Those can be supplied. Two horses and a mule should be sufficient for your needs,” Woolicombe replied with the briskness of a man who is well used to being obeyed without question. “I shall write you a docket and you may take it to Sergeant McCullough at the stables. He will furnish you with what you need.” 

“You have Mr Norrell’s and my gratitude, sir,” Childermass said, for if the truth were to be told he had not wished to spend the rest of the day seeking out a horse trader and then undoubtably getting poor quality mounts at an inflated price, which was all too frequently the consequence bargaining in a foreign land whilst being unable to speak the native tongue. 

Mr Norrell, who had grown more agitated as the conversation had progressed, then interjected, “Is…is there not a carriage that runs there?” He gave Woolicombe a hopeful look. “I should be willing to wait if there were.”

“There is not, sir,” Woolicombe said glancing at the clock on the mantle with the look of a busy man who is aware there are not enough hours in the day to meet all his responsibilities. “I doubt you should be able to hire one, the local drivers seem adverse to such things when it means going so close to the French. Quite apart from that the roads are so poor that once you leave Lisbon it likely to impractical. You may of course attempt it if you wish, but I should say it would be both a waste of time and money, sir.”

“Oh,” Mr Norrell said, any hope that he might have held about the journey being made in some degree of comfort disappearing like morning mist on a hot summers day. “I should thank you for your honesty, sir,” he said presently, feeling that a mere exclamation of surprize and disappointment might be construed as rude or ungrateful, which was not a reputation that he wished to acquire. 

Woolicombe then wrote them the promised docket for McCullough and then called for a same young ensign who had brought them to him to escort them to the stables and the aforementioned Sergeant. 

The stables were arranged around a courtyard at the rear of the property and appeared almost as busy as the port had the previous evening, as there was much bustle as dispatch riders moved too and fro and a large group of mules were loaded and lead away by their drivers. The wiry figure of Sergeant McCullough stood at the centre of this making certain all occurred as it should while simultaneously talking to one of the stable hands about cleaning the water troughs. 

A Scot by birth McCullough had served the English for many years and was well thought of despite his origins. What he thought of the English or most others was seldom repeatable in polite conversation, indeed he preferred the company of his horses far more than that of people. The ensign introduced them and then returned to carry out the next task Woolicombe had for him. 

McCullough considered both Mr Norrell and Childermass with startlingly blue eyes that glared out from under prodigious ginger eyebrows. “You ride,” he said to Childermass, before turning to Mr Norrell, “and you do not. ” 

“I rode in my youth,” Mr Norrell said defensively as he did not like McCullough attitude towards him in the slightest [2]. “We have authorisation from your Quartermaster, Woolicombe, to chuse two horses as I have important business with General Wellington.” 

“I meant no offence,” McCullough replied, although this was said more out of reflex from years of dealing with officers as it was from any real measure of sincerity. “I was merely speaking aloud to decide best which to give you.” He then had the stablehands bring out three horses; a bay, a chestnut and a dappled grey.

Mr Norrell watched the creatures with equal parts suspicion and fear, before he said, “Do you not have any that are perhaps a little smaller?” 

McCullough shook his head. “Unless you wish to ride one of the pack mules, sir, I do not.” 

Childermass who had also been watching their prospective mounts, although with a more friendly eye than his employer. “We should take the light brown one and the grey.” He turned to Mr Norrell, and continued, “The grey seems good natured enough, you should not have trouble with her.” 

Mr Norrell remained unconvinced, but McCullough voiced his agreement that they bay and the dapple were good choices for them and arranged for the horses as well a mule to be brought to their lodgings later that day. Suitable tack would be included, although all other things such as they might require for the journey they would need to furnish for themselves. 

The walk back to their lodgings following this meeting was a silent one, both men deeply occupied in thoughts about what should await them in the morning and beyond. 

TBC

 

[1] This was not the only information which Childermass had discovered as there was a great deal of talk on the street about the war, much of which was troubling and related to recent French victories in the north of the country and the fear that they would once more move south and seek take Lisbon. Childermass did not share this with Mr Norrell as he was well aware of the effect such news would have on him. Indeed Childermass greatly subscribed to the idea that what Mr Norrell did not know could not hurt him, and perhaps more importantly it could not cause him to become so fretful that he was unable to take any sensible action on anything more taxing that deciding what to have breakfast. 

[2] This was new information even to Childermass who had been in Mr Norrell’s service for a great many years. The truth of the matter was that Mr Norrell seldom had left Hurtfew before he had gone to London, and on the rare occasions that he had done so it was always by carriage. However, as a young man, whilst his father had been alive, Mr Norrell had been required on occasion to ride, hunt and take part in a number of social functions, all of which he had found wearying in the extreme, and as such after the death of his father he avoided them entirely. 

 

A/N Ensign is no longer used as a rank in the British army, it was renamed as 2nd Lieutenant after 1871.


	5. Chapter 5

Mr Norrell did not like being woken when the sun was the merest suggestion of brightness on the horizon and he liked it still less when there was a long journey ahead of him. Of this and many other things which he did not like about mornings, journeys and Portugal he told to Childermass at great length while they readied themselves to leave Lisbon.

Mr Norrell looked even more unhappy once upon his horse than he had when he had first realised he was to have to ride. He rode every part as poorly as Childermass had feared he might and no suggestions or observations that he had made had caused Mr Norrell to sit easier on his mount. Indeed he managed to look both hunched and painfully stiff in the saddle at one and the same time as they made their way through the quiet streets, him clinging to the reins as if he feared the docile grey might suddenly run wild. 

The common soldiers who would make the journey to the Lines on foot had already departed from where they had been garrisoned by the time Mr Norrell and Childermass arrived. A small group of officers remained, although they were now readying themselves to leave.

“My word, what have we here?,” said a young captain by the name of Westerton, who swung himself easily into the saddle of his grey, who was much larger beast than Mr Norrell’s own. “Do not tell me Lord Liverpool has sent another of his bean counters to discern the cost of this war.”

“He is the magician, Mr Norrell,” said Westerton’s friend, a stocky fellow called Lieutenant Philpps. “Woolicombe spoke of him at dinner.”

“Woolicombe spoke of little else,” the third officer, whose name was Mountford remarked with amusement backed up by the firmly held self-belief that he was exceedingly witty. “I had thought he had exaggerated. But I see he was quite correct, and in his view of the servant too.” 

“Tell me, sir. How do you usually travel?” Philpps asked as he trotted his horse over to Mr Norrell. “Does a man of your abilities really need such a mundane thing as a horse? Surely a flying carpet or perhaps a magic door that opened wherever you wished should be more suitable.” 

“If he has such a door he may give it to me,” Mountford remarked, “For I have been without my wife more than two months now, and I greatly need a visit.” 

“I cannot and will not make such things,” Norrell replied horrified that they should suggest such a thing. “It would be unseemly and so dangerous that I cannot even begin to imagine the circumstances under which one would attempt such a thing. Although there was an instance of an enchanted door in one of the Durham Chronicles which I think illustrates perfectly why one should have nothing to do with such vulgar magic.”

“Take no heed of them,” Childermass said, knowing that a lengthy lecture on the peculiarities of magical transportation was imminent and that it would do little to endear Mr Norrell to them. “They do not know you or magic.” 

The three young officers, all of whom were in possession of newly purchased commissions and had in reality had little more idea of the rigours of war than Mr Norrell himself continued in this vein both about Mr Norrell and a number of other people whom they felt worthy of jest, until a more senior senior joined them. 

The man was one of Wellington’s most carefully chosen exploring officers, Major Colquhoun Grant who had been in Lisbon on a pressing matter for his General. He looked at Mr Norrell with rather less surprize or amusement, but a deal more resignation. He was polite, and made introductions to them all. 

“If you are quite ready, sirs,” he said to the young officers, “We shall be off.” 

“You may wish to sit a little easier, sir,” he said to Mr Norrell as he trotted his horse past them, ready to lead them from the gate. “Or otherwise sitting maybe prove somewhat uncomfortable later.” 

 

They first broke their ride around two hours after they had left Lisbon to rest and water horses. It had not been an unpleasant thus far, the road wide and relatively well maintained as it cut a dusty path through the farm land. Fields of pale green shoots of spring wheat, vineyards with their regiments rows of vines and groves of gnarled olives trees made a patchwork landscape, amongst which was dotted farm houses and the occasional windmill. 

It was at this point, a little over ten miles from Lisbon that they joined with the soldiers were to reinforce the 58th foot on the Lines. The Lines themselves were a most remarkable construction, which had been ordered by General Wellington himself and brought to life by the talents of Sir Richard Fletcher. Constructed in ten short months, the three lines of ravelins, redoubts, cannon emplacements and blockhouses had provided an near impenetrable barrier to the French. Childermass looked at the sharp, jutting outcrops that were crowned at frequent intervals by forts and semaphore towers with wariness. Magic was a far greater part of his life than even Mr Norrell was permitted to know and being so close to these new technologies seemed to drive magic further into the past in a way that made him worry for the future of it.

Mr Norrell did not look at them at all, as by this point his thoughts had narrowed to only two things, staying on his horse and the utter discomfort of being in the saddle for hours on end when one is unused to such things. 

Wellington's headquarters on the Lines at Pero Negro was a most unremarkable building, but so grateful was Mr Norrell at the prospect of finally ending the journey he found it a most welcoming sight. 

“I feel bruised to the bone,” Mr Norrell complained as Childermass easily dismounted and made his way over to him. “How is it that you seem no worse for it?” 

“I am used to it,” Childermass replied as he approached him. “Today’s ride was far less than the distance I travel from London to Hurtfew on your business. You will grow used to it in time.” 

“I do not wish to become accustomed to this,” Mr Norrell said a definite whine in his voice. “I hurt in places I dare not even mention. This has been intolerable and I refuse to travel in this way ever again."

Childermass gave him an exasperated look, but did not share his thoughts that Mr Norrell would indeed have to get used to riding for he would have little choice about it unless he wished to return to England with the admission that he could be of no use. Admitting that he had made a mistake was not something that Childermass had ever seen or heard his employer to do. Neither did he have any great wish to see Mr Norrell return home in defeat, so despite the irritations that remaining would bring he had already decided that he would see to it that Mr Norrell would return to England a welcomed and respected figure for the magics he had done. 

Getting Mr Norrell down from the horse, who regarded him with look that suggested it would be as happy to be rid of him and he was of it, proved difficult. Finally he all but fell sideway off the horse to be caught by Childermass, who mostly by luck managed to keep his feet and not be tumbled to the ground with Mr Norrell on top of him.

This sight proved to be of great amusement to a group of young ensigns, who laughed and pointed until Childermass glared at them and Mr Norrell was quite red with embarrassment. After this they were shewn into what had at one point been the drawing room and asked if there was anything that they might require while they awaited Wellington’s return.

The wait was rather longer than Mr Norrell thought was polite and he was considering whether to send Childermass to find out what was happening when the door opened and Wellington and a group of officers, none below the rank of Major and some much above, entered the room. 

“I do not wish to be told that you cannot follow a simple order,” Wellington said sharply to a Colonel, who looked as travel weary as they. “I need solutions to problem, not further problems.” 

He looked at Mr Norrell and then at Childermass. “And who may you be, sir? I have no need for an accountant.” 

Stiff and sore, Mr Norrell stood as straight as he could and said, “I am Mr Norrell, sent by the Admiralty. I am to be your magician, sir.”

“I have no need of one,” Wellington said, voice short as his day had been wearisome and filled with the kind of news that those in command find most troubling. “What I need is more men, more horses and more cannon and the means to get them to where I need them to be and to feed them while they drive the French before them. Now tell me, sir, can you do any of those things?”

“No, but I do have some ideas,” Mr Norrell said quite taken aback at Wellington's curtness of tone.

“Well let’s have them, man,” Wellington said. “I do not have the luxury of time to spend guessing what passes through the mind of a modern day Merlin.”

Flustered and not a little overawed by Wellington’s commanding presence, Mr Norrell replied, “I believe given time I could replicate my sea beacons to form a similar warning system on land.”

“I already have that by way of the lines, the semaphore towers there on have proved far more reliable than conjuring tricks ever could hope to.” Wellington turned his back on Mr Norrell and moved to inspect the large map that had been placed by Major Grant onto the table in the centre of the room. 

“I could make it rain on the French,” Mr Norrell suggested even more uncertain of himself now that his best idea had been dismissed out of hand. “It would be most disheartening to be wet every day and quite ruinous to health one should think given enough time.” 

Wellington considered this briefly before answering, “And where should this deluge go? Into the rivers that I must cross to rout the French from the cities they have taken? Should it continue to fall while our own troops advance, soaking our powder and turning the ground to mud? No, no, I do not see the use of this at all, sir.” 

“I could shew you what Napoleon is doing at this very moment. I should just need my polished bowl and some clean water,” Mr Norrell said increasingly desperate to prove that he and his magic could be of practical use. “I can have Childermass bring them to us.”

“It is late. I should suspect that he is sleeping or with his wife or mistress; sights I have no wish to see or hear,” Wellington said with a finally that those who knew him meant any further suggestions would be less than well received. There was a murmur of agreement and a muffled laughter from the officers who had come in with him. 

“You should not be able to hear it, one can only view such things,” Mr Norrell said. He looked then at Childermass in a mute appeal for help, before turning his gaze to the floor, uncomfortable both in body from the ride and in mind from the dismissive attitudes of those around him. 

“Then that is quite useless to me unless you are also proficient in reading minds or at very least lips,” Wellington replied, his mind already in other far more pressing matters such as the how best get Colonel Beresford to Badajoz, lay siege to it and take control of it back from the French and thereby secure the Portuguese border with Spain, while still having enough troops to take walled city Almeida and to keep the Lines defended. He shook his head dismissively and said, “I confess I have no idea what to do with you, although Lord Liverpool will not take kindly to me returning you to England upon the first available ship, and Lord knows I need the support and goodwill of those in the Admiralty if I am to beat the French. So Mr Norrell, you will stay and perhaps in time I may find use for you, until then do try to stay out of the way.” 

So shocked at this treatment Mr Norrell found he could not even form the words to reply and nodded forlornly. At this point Childermass intervened, and after telling Wellington that Mr Norrell was exhausted and would be able to better answer question tomorrow, he escorted his employer away. 

 

TBC

 

 

A/N sorry for the delay, this part got so long that I've had to split it in two, so here his 2000 words now and hopefully the next 2000 in a day or two as it is mostly just editing to be done on it.


	6. Chapter 6

There was little accommodation to be had, but after Childermass had impressed on an ensign that Mr Norrell answered only to Wellington and Lord Liverpool himself, and should therefore be regarded with respect, a room was quickly found and their luggage taken to it. 

It was not the kind of room that Mr Norrell was used to staying in. It was sparsely furnished, with little more than a bed, a desk and a chair, while the walls were roughly rendered with white plaster and the single window bore a wooden shutter rather than glass. The lack of even a single bookcase he found terribly upsetting and made up his mind to ask one to be found first thing in the morning. For Childermass himself he was given the option of billeting with the soldiers or taking a straw pallet and making a bed for himself in the corner of Mr Norrell room. He little liked either option, but Mr Norrell had insisted that he stayed with him as it would cause him great inconvenience should not be able to find him when he required something.

“Wellington does not want me here,” Mr Norrell said unhappily, as he eased himself down to sit on his bed, a look of discomfort crossing his face. “I do not know why he has taken so against me. What have I ever done to him to deserve such treatment?” 

Childermass knelt to remove his employers shoes and stockings. “He will come to see your uses in time.” 

Mr Norrell did not look at all comforted or convinced of this. “I wish that I could believe you were right.” 

“I have never told you falsely before,” Childermass replied, “I should not begin now.” It was something of a half truth, as while he had never answered a direct question from him with an outright lie, it had to be said that he was very often economical with the truth. 

Mr Norrell had then asserted that it was certainly too late for him to eat or else he would not be able to sleep. Although, he had added miserably, he did not believe he would be able to sleep for he could not find a position that did not after a few short minutes cause his legs and back to ache intolerably. 

There was, Childermass was certain, some exaggeration on his employer’s part, for Mr Norrell coped poorly with any form of discomfort whether it be from cold, heat or stiff and tender muscles caused by a long ride. Despite the knowledge that a great deal of his employer’s troubles could have been avoided had he taken Major Grant’s or his own advice about how to sit and to take frequent breaks to walk along side his horse, he had no wish to see him remain in discomfort. [1] So after readying Mr Norrell for bed, Childermass sought out the kitchens, before returning to him. 

“What is this?” Mr Norrell asked suspiciously and peered into the mug as if expecting to see some vision of doom it. 

“Warmed milk with a little brandy,” Childermass said placing it into Mr Norrell's hand. There was rather more than a little in it and while he was well aware than his employer usually eschewed harder spirits and even wine on most days and as such his tolerance for drink was embarrassingly low, he was of the opinion that tonight it would do him far greater good than it ever it had at parties [2]. “It will help easy the soreness and you will sleep a little easier.”

“Or give me indigestion I shouldn’t wonder.” Despite this complaint Mr Norrell drank it as he had long trusted Childermass to help him in such things. It occurred to him later that he should be left wanting for a great many things were he not to have his man of business there to attend to him. For all Mr Lascelles had complained of Childermass and his rough ways, Mr Norrell remained of the opinion that he couldn’t have found a finer man to have in his employ and as such he would never replace him for he should never be able find another who understood his needs so thoroughly. 

As Childermass took the empty cup from him and placed it on the desk, Mr Norrell asked, “Will you sleep now also?” 

It had been a long and wearisome day, but Childermass knew where his next course of actions lay and he said. “No, I have other business to attend to.”

Surprized and a little hurt by what he saw as his servant’s desire to leave him at the first opportunity, he said sharply, “And what business may that be? Has some maid caught your eye?”

Childermass gave him a disbelieving look. “You know I do not trouble myself with such things. No, it is your business as ever. If Wellington wishes you to be of use then you must know what he needs and know it before he realises he requires it. So I shall do as I have always done, I shall seek out that information for you,” at this point he paused to pick up his hat and coat, “I shall speak to the common soldiers, maybe a sergeant or two and find out what it is they know and what they might need.”

Mr Norrell did not feel reassured by this and said, “How should they know better than a General what is needed in this war?” 

“They are the ones fighting and dying. They will know.” He stood Mr Norrell's bedside, a tall dark figure next to his employer’s slight, seated and nightshirt clad form. “Do you have need of anything more from me before I go?”

There were a great many things which Mr Norrell wanted, but he found himself unable to give voice to a single one. It was not that his requests would have been startling or even particularly inappropriate, rather that he did not wish to appear weak, foolish or ungentlemanly asking for such things as advice on how to easy the burn in his legs and back or how he did not feel at all safe in this strange, bare little room it the French just a few short miles away and how more than anything he really didn't want to be left alone. Cross with himself for feeling this way and Childermass for not spontaneously knowing what he needed, he said with tired irritability, “Do not remain out late and do not wake me on your return, you know I find it terribly difficult to sleep again if I am wakened.”

“I shall be like a shadow, sir. Have no fear.” 

 

Leaving Mr Norrell to rest, Childermass left their accommodation and made his way to where fields of tents stood in regimented rows, the white canvas as pale as oddly angular ghosts in the dark night.

Although he was not familiar with the art of warfare it seemed to Childermass that there were a great many soldiers present for such a small place, even if it were General Wellington's head quarters. Some looked fresh and bright in their scarlet coats, new recruits lately arrived from England. Others were travel worn, their clothes dulled and much repaired after months of service in the harsh conditions of an Iberian winter. They were being gathered there, of that much Childermass was certain, although for what purpose he could not be certain. However, what he had seen and knew of Wellington he suspected that they may soon be taking the war to the French rather than defending against their advance. 

It made the need to gather information all the more pressing and Childermass moved in the shadows listening to the common soldiers, seeking out those who looked most worn by campaign. 

“Speak and be recognised,” called a private, a musket held ready in his hands as Childermass approached. 

“A fellow Yorkshireman, in search of a little warmth on a cold night,” Childermass said, moving a little closer, knowing that he had chosen well who to approach. Voice lower, he said, “By bird and book, I offer no harm.” 

“You’re him, the wizard’s man,” Private Greenwood said, rather in awe of what was happening on an otherwise unremarkable night. Greenwood then called over his Sergeant, who after looking at Childermass had confirmed that he was welcome to warm himself at their fire, provided he in return gave them news of England. 

There was something about the flickering of the firelight, the sharp tang of woodsmoke and the songs of love, longing and home the men sang that that resonated with him. It was something that echoed down the ages, these men were as those that had come across the sea in ages past, bringing names and myths with them in their longships, they were as those who served the barons and marcher lords when England warred with itself and the Raven King held the North under his protection. They were soldiers of King George as he was, in his way, one for the Raven King. 

There was a common ground between them and soon he was information flowed to him as letters from home that the men couldn't read were proffered, drink was shared, news of England related and tales were told. All that was said Childermass’ suspicions that they troops were being mustered to leave were confirmed, and although none of the men knew to where they would be sent all were certain that it would happen soon and that it would be a hard and bitter war, which would be fought as much with the French as with the landscape of jagged peaks, wide rivers and tangled woods that lay in front of them. 

It was late when Childermass returned, although none saw or heard him as he silently slipped through the still and dark passages of the house like a wraith, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of woodsmoke, tobacco and rum. 

Mr Norrell was asleep when he softly left himself into their room. Curled tightly under the coverlet, a nightcap pulled firmly over his shortly trimmed hair, he snuffled in his sleep like a hedgehog seeking its way in a darkened garden. Childermass had always found it fitting that his employer should sound like such a small and prickly creature, and one whose defence in life was to turn inwards and hide in the hope that what troubled them would considered them not worth bothering with and go away. With a faint smile, that contained rather more fondness than he would have allowed to be seen had Mr Norrell have been awake, he lit himself a small stub of candle and placed it by his bed.

It had been an illuminating evening, if a little concerning that they might soon be forced to travel once again. Now that he had information and suspicions about what would happen he turned to his cards for greater understanding. They had served him well in the long years since they came into his possession, and although he would never admit it he found a comfort in holding their worn forms that he rarely encountered elsewhere.

Tonight however they were far from comforting, the answers they gave him seemed a nonsense as they were contradictory even between one card and the next. Concerned that perhaps the questions he was asking of the were too imprecise, although it was not a problem he had thereto encountered, he tried to discern the best course of action Mr Norrell should take. Instead the answers it gave him were by turns both deeply unnerving and utterly preposterous when applied to Mr Norrell. 

Childermass looked at the last two cards he had turned, The Lovers and the Ace of Cups and sighed before pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. There surely were not more unlikely cards to relate to any aspect of Mr Norrell future. It could not be correct, he thought, deciding that he would gather more information in the morning and try again when weariness wasn't tugging at him like a particularly large and persistent dog on a lead. 

Placing the cards under his pillow, Childermass lay in the dark, feeling more uncertain about the future than he was accustomed to. Despite his body's need for rest his mind remained unquiet and it was deep into the small hours of the morning with the sound of rain falling heavily outside and the hedgehog snuffles of Mr Norrell in the far corner of the room that he finally fell into an uneasy sleep. 

 

TBC

 

[1] For not only would Mr Norrell fail to learn from the experience he would remain in a disagreeable mood for sometime afterwards. And from experience Childermass knew that he was most likely claim that it was all the fault of the advice he did not followed that it had been the cause of his discomfort in the first place. 

[2] There had been a small number of occasions soon after Mr Norrell’s arrival in London, when needing to secure a reputable image he had been required to attend a number of social functions, all of which he had found most taxing. A drink to steady his nerves became three or four, and he then found himself quite able to talk at considerable length about a great many things relating to the history and practice of respectable magic with fear of what people might think. It was a topic which seemed to bore his hosts immensely, which once he realised it made him require another drink to ease his nerves and for Childermass to have to assist him out to his carriage.


	7. Chapter 7

Mr Norrell did little during the two days following his arriving at Pero Negro, indeed for the first day barely left his bed, citing weariness and discomfort on moving. As a consequence of this he called on Childermass for everything he needed and for a great deal of things that he didn’t. 

Despite this Childermass found he had far less to occupy his time and interests than he was accustomed to. For when he was at Hurtfew in addition to his normal duties as Mr Norrell’s man of business there had also been the running of the estate and its accounts to be dealt with. There had, although Mr Norrell had not known the fullest extent of it for it would have met wi his extreme disapproval if he had, the opportunity to read in the houses great library after his employer had retired to bed. While in London his time had been spent making connections, acting as a butler to the steady stream of visitors to Mr Norrell's Hanover Square residence and searching for the ragged street magician, Vinculus. 

Mr Norrell remained irritable even once the initial soreness from his ride had passed, the fear of what lay ahead of them making him querulous about the smallest of things, including the fact that a suitable bookcase could not be found and that the crickets were far louder than those in Yorkshire. Childermass’ own uncertainties about their future following the confusing reading he had made on that first night had not aided matters. So it was that that Childermass found himself looking for reasons to excuse himself that he might find somewhere to find a little time alone, less he lose his temper and snap back at Mr Norrell rather than apply his usual faintly mocking dry humour. 

Yet there were few places to be alone in such a place, as all the while the number of troops around Wellington’s headquarters increased until it seemed that the whole of the British Army was camped thereabouts. It was not, Childermass had been informed on one of his nocturnal trips down to where the tents were pitched, rather it was only a portion of the first, third and fifth divisions. 

Their stay in Pero Negro continued in this way until upon the midmorning of the fifth day there was there was a sharp knock upon the door and Childermass opened it to find Major Grant outside. 

“I am not dressed for receiving visitors,” said Mr Norrell, who was wearing his house coat and hat as he peered through his glasses at his much read edition of Sutton-Grove which lay open on the desk. “Childermass, ask them to return this afternoon, no sooner than three.” 

“I do not come to pay you a social visit, sir,” Grant said, not waiting for the reply to relayed to him. “Nor indeed a visit of any length at all. It is merely to advise you that Wellington is making ready and that within days we shall begin to move northwards.”

Mr Norrell looked up sharply at this and then made his way to stand partially behind Childermass in the doorway. “But the French are to the north, are they not?” he said, “Surely it would not be safe.”

“It would be uncommonly hard to fight them if we did not seek them out,” Grant said with some amusement. “The French are in retreat from Portugal, Wellington’s Lines have them foxed and no mistake. So they seek to secure their hold on Spain and we shall seek to prevent them.”

“Is there to be a battle?” Mr Norrell asked as he moved closer to Childermass, as if being partially hidden behind him should protect him from any news which he did not wish to hear. 

“Eventually, I have no doubt, such is the nature of war.” Grant looked at the fear in the small, odd magician’s face and wondered not for the first time since meeting him in Lisbon just how such a timid mouse of a man should be of use in battle. He took pity on him however [1] and said, “You need not fear, you shall travel at the rear with the supply wagons and such. I doubt you shall come to harm there. I shall see to it that you are issued with a tent before we make ready to leave and you may place it upon one of the tent mules the officers use.” 

Below Wellington’s headquarters in the centre of the small village of Pero Negro the church bell tolled eleven, and Major Grant said, “I must leave now as I have other duties I must attend to, so I wish you a good day, sir.” 

Once the Major had departed Mr Norrell went to stand at the window from where he could see troops being drilled and marched, less they got too complacent during the short period of inactivity prior to departing the Lines. For some such a sight, the brilliant scarlet uniforms, shining brass buttons and crisp white belts, would have brought a patriotic joy to their heart. For Mr Norrell it only served to increase his fear of what may lie ahead, yet he could not seem to look away either. “I do not wish to see a battle,” he said suddenly. “I do not think that it would agree with me.” 

Childermass joined him at this point, standing just a little to the side of him to lean against edge of deep set window frame. “I doubt there are many who would wish to and fewer still who should want to fight in one.” 

“If there were to be one, a battle that is, you do think that they should ask me to use magic to take a life?” Mr Norrell asked a little breathlessly as panic as to what his response should be set in. He gripped the window sill, fingertips pressed tight against the old, pitted wood. “It would be improper and hardly a respectable thing to do. No, no, I should go so far as to say it might even be called immoral. Yet if it should save a British life or bring us victory...” He lapsed into silence, fingers picking nervously at the wood for some moments before he continued, upset by what he saw as his own failings, “I do not think I could. I do not believe I have it in me.” 

Unused to his employer being so open with him, Childermass replied using a kinder tone than he usually employed, “Not all men can take a life. It is heavy task indeed.”

“Should they think me a coward if I cannot?” Mr Norrell spoke so softly at this point that Childermass was uncertain whether he had meant to reveal the thought at all. He was still trying to decide if he should answer when Mr Norrell turned and looked up at him, added with greater fear than before, “Would you?” 

“No.” There was no hesitation for Childermass knew that he would not. He was aware that there were many things that Mr Norrell would not and could not do out of fear which may or may have been founded in reality, yet he could not place unwillingness to take a life with these more mundane troubles. “No, I should not.”

“Not all are as understanding as you or see the worlds as clearly. It is why I need you here,” he said, eyes watery behind his glasses. “People can be very cruel when you are different and I fear harsh nature of war shall bring out the worst in them.”

“All will be well,” Childermass said, although he had no way of knowing such a thing for his cards had remained contrary and vague when he managed to find a quiet moment to consult them. It felt like a lie on his tongue, a sharp and bitter thing that picked at his conscience, and the found he couldn’t quite look Mr Norrell in the eye for some minutes afterward, less his own fears were clearly writ there. 

Mr Norrell did not see those worries and took his reassurances as truth as he most always did, and slowly released his grip on the window sill. “You are quite right, you usually are on such matters. Now, I should write to Mr Strange and tell him of all that has happened to us and enquiry how his studies progress.” He smiled, happily distracted for the moment, and then said, “I think he should be surprized to hear what adventures I have had. I hope that he shall not be too jealous of it.” 

“He has a wife that I doubt he would wish to be parted from,” Childermass replied. He had seen how Strange looked at Arabella and she at him, and was well aware how such affection affected people. [2] “They have not been married so very long.”

“He has his studies also, they should not be interrupted at such an early stage,” Mr Norrell added, certain that these were or at the very least should be the most important thing in Mr Strange's life. He seated himself at his desk once more and then called to Childermass to bring him ink, quill and paper,

******

 

The order to move out came three days later, and mounted once more upon the horses issued to them in Lisbon and the mule loaded with Mr Norrell’s chest of books they followed Wellington’s divisions out of Pero Negro to the sound of the pipes and drums. 

It was with unspoken amusement and not a little relief that Childermass noted that Mr Norrell had chosen to heed some of the advice he had been given and frequently walked along side his horse while he grew more used to riding. This was not without issue however as he was little used to walking such distances and such was very weary at the end of each day. [3]

It was too easy to forget, Childermass realised after they had been travelling for a little over a week on rough, barely made roads through the mountains, that Mr Norrell was now past fiftieth year. This was because in his mannerisms, demeanour and even mode of dress he had seemed to be of such age since he had first joined his employ many years before. Yet the truth of the matter was that Mr Norrell was not a young man and he was ill used to the rigours of daily travel, especially when he found the food largely unpalatable and the tent with which he had been issued cold and drafty in the extreme. 

So it was that Childermass found himself treating his employer a little more gently than perhaps he once had. Not that he had been unnecessarily harsh with him in times past, but he had always sought to steer him towards certain courses of action or reminded him, with rather more forwardness and a great deal less tact than a servant should ever employ, when his actions or more often inactions were less than helpful to his aims. 

Yet for all that this period of travel was wearisome, Childermass was certain it was preferable to what was likely to come once they finally engaged with the French. 

 

TBC 

 

[1] There were two reasons behind this, one was that he suspected that Wellington would not look favourable on him for scaring Mr Norrell half to death with the grim realities of war. The second was that Mr Norrell, dressed as he was, rather reminded him of his great uncle George, who had been a kind and simple soul and who had indulged him with sweets and tales of ancient Greek and Roman heroes when he had been a boy. 

[2] Mostly it made Childermass glad he was not prey to such emotions for it made him that he would have lost many opportunities had he been so burdened. There was however a small part of him, one which he rarely indulged, which was a little curious about how admitting such tender feelings in to his heart might feel, if kind word or touch when things were difficult might be more soothing than a pipe of tobacco or pint of ale. A still smaller part and one which he tried hard to believe was not real but merely the result long standing familiarity informed him, on those rare occasions when he permitted himself to think of it at all, that those feelings were indeed present in him: the desire to protect, to help and even comfort, and they were with rare exception directed towards Mr Norrell. 

[3]So much so that on more than one occasion Childermass was forced to wake him less he nodded off into his evening meal.

 

A/N General Wellington left his headquarters Pero Negro and the protection afforded by the Lines with large parts of the 1st, 3rd and 5th divisions during the March of 1811. He did not return there and over the course of the next three years the British army with help from the armies of Portugal and Spain, as well as the Spanish guerrillieros drove the French back across the Pyrennes and into France.


	8. Chapter 8

The day’s march had been called to a halt little early than usual, although there was no sign of the usual activity of setting sentries, erecting tents and lighting cook fires. Mr Norrell who was uncertain if this was a positive development insofar as whether it meant he might now rest or if it were a troubling one if meant that the French had been sighted. He was about to send to Childermass to find out when he saw Major Grant approaching them on horseback, for the Major tended to ride ahead of the snaking line of men that marched across the open, rocky land of northern Portugal. 

“Is there some danger on the road ahead, Major?” he asked nervously, afraid that he may be proved correct in his earlier fears.

“Not unless you count the prospect of getting wet a great danger, sir’” he replied. “We have halted because the front of the column has reached the Zezere river, and I seek you out because Wellington asked it of me and wishes it crossed with all haste.” 

“Is there not a bridge?” Mr Norrell asked a little confused at why he should be sought and informed of Wellington's plan. 

“There was, however the French have been rude enough to destroy it and make things inconvenient for us,” Grant said, with that ease he seemed to have at making more palatable a difficult situation. “So we require another, this evening if at all possible. The General believes it's time for you to show your worth.”

“My worth?” It came out as an indignant near squeak. “I cannot conjour a bridge from nothing, sir.” Mr Norrell turned to look at Childermass, seeking his support for this statement, before adding, “It cannot be done.” 

“You must at least try,” Grant said, not wishing to return to Wellington as the bearer of such news. “Wellington’s words to me were ‘I do not care if he parts the waters as Moses did or finds some obliging faery to do it for him, I must have my artillery across that river.’ Grant leant down in his saddle a little at this point and added, “The General expects great things of those around him, but he only asks when he believes that they already have that capacity for greatness within them.” 

If his initial words has stung Mr Norrell what followed played to his vanity about his skill as a practical magician and as such he did not feel able to argue against the first less he disproved the second. “I shall have to think on it.”

“Do not think too long, time is a luxury rarely available to us.” He looked at where the sun was starting to lower on western horizon. “I can delay a little, half an hour perhaps, but I must give him an answer tonight. For if you cannot do this then you must tell me and some other way must be sought and quickly.”

“I do not think I can,” Mr Norrell said fretfully, the words spoken as much to himself as to Grant. He greatly wished to help, but as he could not recall ever having read of a spell about constructing bridges he was almost certain he would not be able to.

“Could you tell us what remains of the bridge?” Childermass said, realising that nothing would be decided if he did not quickly intervene. “Could it be repaired?” He moved a little closer to his employer, then reassured him, “You have spells for such, well tried and tested.”

Mr Norrell still looked rather panicked at the idea of needing plan a course of actions with only minutes to do so. “Yes, I do, but I should need to see the bridge. Is the damage great or minor? what is the bridge constructed of, is it wood or stone? How large is the river? These are all very pressing questions. I cannot possibly begin without such facts.”

Grant listened and then replied, “It was a wooden bridge and it was fired, there is little left but a few of the largest timbers, but they all badly charred and of no use in rebuilding it. As for the size, the Zezere is not so wide as the Thames, but it is a deal swifter. Are you quite sure there is not a way you could hold back the water, it should not need to be for more than a few hours at most?”

At this point Childermass leant close to Mr Norrell and said something that Grant could not quite hear. The magician’s expression which was first one of confusion changed and then he replied, “I cannot part the waters as Wellington suggested, but have walked upon a river, the Thames no less. Would such a thing suffice?”

“To walk on water.”Grant said it as if to suggest a moral man doing as such could be seen as blasphemy, yet he was intrigued by it all the same, and asked rather more eagerly, “but how, sir? How did you manage such a thing?”

“It was not water at the time, Major Grant, but ice,” Mr Norrell said, eyes bright with a new enthusiasm for the task ahead of him. “Tell me have you ever been to a Frost Fair? Mr Strange persuaded me to attend one only these three months past. I cannot say I was much taken it with it, but ice when of such thickness as it was then was very strong. Should such ice be sufficient for your purpose here?” 

“If you can freeze the the Zezere in spring like the Thames in on the coldest day of winter then I have not doubt you will gain Wellington’s favour,” Grant said, not sure whether such a thing was possible, or worse still that the river may freeze but not to such a degree as to permit anyone or anything to cross in safety and that men, horses or artillery might be lost in swirling, freezing waters. “Shall I inform the General of what you intend to do or are you uncertain if this can be done? I should not wish to give him false hope of what you can do.” 

“I never promise that which I cannot achieve ,” Mr Norrell replied, not a little hurt that people might consider him to be as false in his promises as a common street magician. “Now I must consult my books, for there are some details I need to confirm. Also if you could find me some glass, it does not need to be a great amount, about what is in a wine glass should be sufficient if the size of the river is as you say. If you can find one that has a pale blue or green finish it shall be even better.”

“You should not need anything else?” Grant asked, finding himself far more intrigued about how things might now proceed than he had imagined he would be. 

“I should like some tea,” he replied sounding rather surprized that he had not noticed how thirsty he was until that point. He was not sure what sort of tea the army might provide so added, “but I shall set Childermass to that task, for nobody else seems to get it quite the way I like it.” 

 

* * * 

It was not until the evening had drawn towards night and the shadows were growing dark and deep that Mr Norrell declared that he was ready to freeze the river. 

He had requested that everybody stood well back. This was not as many supposed out of concern for their safety, indeed Mr Norrell did not consider the spell dangerous in the slightest, rather he did not wish to be distracted by them coughing, shuffling or asking questions. He did however request that Childermass accompanied him to hold a lantern and anything else he might require. 

So finally and with very little ceremony Mr Norrell stood close to the waters edge, a copy of the spell carefully copied onto paper in one hand [1] and the blue glass fragments in the other [2]

For those who had assembled to watch the magic the sight was less than visually spectacular and there were murmurs amongst some of those present whether there was anything happening at all. The fact wasn't that Mr Norrell did not have the ability to perform the visually impressive magics that Mr Strange seemed to accomplish with such ease, rather it was that he eschewed them deliberately as he viewed them as fanciful and something that should firmly be left in the less this respectable past of English magic.

Yet making the statues of York Minster move and speak, frightening the great and good of the Society of English Magic into accepting his terms, namely that they should agree to stop calling themselves magicians, had been pure indulgent showmanship. Yet despite the fact that he should normally have called such an act disreputable in the extreme it had warmed a fierce pride in him, giving him a sense of power that was in equal parts both terrifying and exhilarating. This was, he had told himself, why magic should not be used recklessly or freely available. His encounter with the Gentleman had deepened this belief, for surely if a man as well versed in magic as himself should have been so easily deceived about the nature of the bargain that he'd made then it seemed self evident to Mr Norrell than if any other had attempted it that they should have fared worse still. 

So it was that clearly and quietly he spoke the words written first written down more than five centuries earlier and the prescribed intervals cast pieces of the broken glass in to the river.

For a short time nothing appeared to happen and then the ice slowly, inexorably spread out from where the glass had struck the deep, swift waters of the Zezere river. Until a full half hour after Mr Norrell had begun and in the light of the bright, butter-gold moon that hung overhead great section of the river had frozen solid, its surface shimmering as if it had turned to frosted glass. 

It had been a taxing experience and Mr Norrell was swaying like a tree in a storm by the time the spell had reached its completion, and Childermass had found it necessary to steady with a hand on his shoulder for fear that he might slip and fall onto the ice below. .

Seeing that it had been completed, Major Grant rode to the edge of the frozen river and dismounted. He checked the ice carefully, moving slowly out to the centre of the Zezere and finally to the far bank. He returned and shook a startled Mr Norrell by the hand. “I have not the first idea how you have accomplished this, sir, but the ice is at least a yard thick even in the centre of the river. I shall inform the General and I have no doubt we will cross the river tonight.” 

They did indeed cross that night, a seemingly endless stream of men and horses moving across the ice bridge, the top of which had been strewn with hastily cut grasses to aid the traction of the wheels of the wagons and gun carriages. 

They camped on the far bank. Tents were erected with an efficiency that belied the late hour and weariness of the men and soon camp fires burnt brightly in the dark night. It was not however until the last men and wagons had crossed, including Wellington and his senior staff that Mr Norrell could finally take his rest. Twice while the troops crossed he had been required to strengthen the spell, for the swift flowing river beneath threaten to thin the ice and send all those upon it to a watery doom. 

“Most impressive, sir,” Wellington said as he passed Mr Norrell. “A trifle more slippery than I would have liked, but a very good first effort. I shall expect great things of you.” 

“He likes me,” Mr Norrell said watching Wellington leave. There was tiredness in his voice, but also barely contained delight as turned Childermass and said,“Did you hear that? He said it was impressive. Do you think that he will send word of it to London? To the Admiralty? Do you think that Mr Strange will hear of it? Perhaps I should write to him of it. I should not like him to think that they have exaggerated what I can do.” 

“I heard, and I’m sure Mr Strange will be glad of a letter,” Childermass replied, more than a little amused by it. For a man who appeared so antisocial, he had found that Mr Norrell delighted in compliments about his magical ability all the same. Indeed once a person had shewed even the smallest praise or kindness to him he seemed to warm to them with an almost pathetic desire to hear such words repeated. That Mr Lascelles had preyed on that need angered Childermass greatly, for it seemed the worse sort of betrayal to place upon Mr Norrell who was so poorly equipped to deal with it. 

Yet now was not the time for talk, as he could see that Mr Norrell shaking with tiredness and cold, for the air around the river seemed to have dropped until it was like a chill December night.“Come now,” he said, “ you need to rest, all else must wait until morning.’

Even with Childermass’ assistance Mr Norrell stumbled a great many times before they were finally across the river and into his tent which was ready and waiting for him. This was due to Major Grant who had seen to it that Mr Norrell's tent had been erected and a bed made up in it by way of thanks for his extraordinary feat with the river. 

“My hands are cold,” Mr Norrell said miserably as Childermass secured the lantern he'd carried with him so that they might have light in their tent. “I can scarcely feel them.”

Troubled by this and by how his employer’s teeth were chattering from the residual cold of the spell, Childermass took the other man’s hands in his own. They were smaller than his own and a great deal cleaner, but they were are Mr Norrell had said, very chill, such as if he had only just removed them from iced water, so he began to try to rub a little warmth back into them. 

Mr Norrell, after a small exclamation of surprize, allowed him to do so. That he moved closer to Childermass while this occurred seemed to be an unconscious gesture on his part, at least until the point he found himself leaning into his touch, feeling the warmth trapped between his clothes and his heavy coat. It was a strange and unaccustomed experience, need for such close contact being something that was utterly alien and rather terrifying to him, yet which in that moment he found to be most desirable and comforting.

“You are very warm, I mean to say your coat is very warm, it keeps you warm,” Mr Norrell said flustered as he hurriedly freed his still cold hands and backed away having scandalised himself by entertaining such thoughts. Yet he was unable to hide his great reluctance to be parted from what he had felt and he asked, “I don't suppose that you might allow me to borrow it, just for a short time?” 

With a sigh, Childermass removed his coat and placed it around Mr Norrell's shoulders. It was a great deal too large for him to wear, but he pulled it about himself, until all but his head was hidden in the dark, well worn folds. At this point he sat down on the narrow camp bed which had been his since their departure from Pero Negro and asked whether a warm drink might be found for him as we was sure it would help. 

However, by the time Childermass returned with the requested drink Mr Norrell was sound asleep on top of his bed, fully dressed and still wrapped tightly in the coat [3]. The sight drew a soft laugh from him, after which he removed Mr Norrell's wig and shoes from him, before letting him rest, reasoning that sleep and warmth would do him far great good than unwrinkled clothing come morning. 

Weary also, although he should never have admitted or shown such a thing, Childermass drank the tea himself rather than let it go to waste. After which he made up his own bed in the opposite corner of the tent, although in truth the smallness of the structure meant that they were still rather close. It was strange, he thought as drifted into sleep how used he'd become to sleeping so close to Mr Norrell that it no longer troubled him to have lost the privacy of his own bedroom.

TBC

 

[1] The idea of taking one of his books, even one that he used as rarely at De Magicus Naturum, so close to water filled him with horror. So he had resorted to carefully transcribing the spell onto one of his sheet of writing paper, as he was also vehemently against trying such a spell from memory less he make a mistake and find himself ridiculed for it. 

[2] The glass that Major Grant eventually managed to procure for Mr Norrell was part of a set owned by one of the other officers, and it had taken a little persuasion and the promise of a good bottle claret to be given in recompense before it had been parted with. Major Grant could have used his position of rank or that it was indirectly at least on Wellington's orders that he needed it, but he felt that was an ungentlemanly thing to do and so did not. 

[3] Childermass did not mind losing its use for the night as way from the ice it was a warm night and he would not have need to sleep in it for warmth. 

 

A/N Wellington route through Portugal to reach the border with Spain would have required the crossing of a number of rivers, the major ones being the Zezere, Coa and de Torones, as the Tagus was already to the south of Pero Negro. It is mentioned in canon (for Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell) that Strange helps make bridges (in addition to roads) to cross the rivers for Wellington. It is not stated which rivers, so I’ve taken the liberty to chose one that Wellington would have had to cross and allowed Mr Norrell his own take on how to make a bridge with magic.


	9. Chapter 9

After Mr Norrell’s exploit of freezing the Zezere he had been kept busy with a number of other requests, the most frequent of which was to employ use of his scrying bowl so that Wellington might see how Beresford was progressing on his more southerly route into Spain, what had happened to patrols that had not returned at their appointed times and where his exploring officers were. It was not perhaps the most spectacular magic to behold, but it had a practicality to it that Mr Norrell approved of and which Wellington needed. He had also been called upon to freeze more rivers. Knowing how chilled he had been following the first, gloves and a fire to warm him while he maintained the spell were added to what he required. Childermass had also made the decision to collect any fragments of suitable glass they found, so not frequently deprive officers of their glassware.

This work was tiring, although by the start of May, a little over six weeks after they had departed Lisbon, Mr Norrell was slowly adapting to their nomadic lifestyle, at least insofar as riding and walking were concerned. What had helped was that he was kept well at the rear of the army and as such started his day a little later than most. It provided a sense of security also, as he was yet to see any fighting. For although the French had been engaged at Sabugal midway through April he had been distant from the action, so that all he had witnessed was the distant sound of musket fire and later the sight of the injured slowly and painfully returning to their battalions.

It was a false sense of security. This became evident when shortly after the arrival of Wellington’s army in the mountain village of Fuentes de Onoro they found their way barred by the French. Positioned to the east of the village, they were present in very great number with more cavalry and artillery at their disposal than Wellington was able to muster at that time, nor where they minded to retreat and let the British and their Portuguese allies pass unhindered.

So it was that Mr Norrell found himself in that same on Wellington’s orders to see if there was anything he was able to do about the narrow and nearly dry riverbed of the Dos Casas stream that ran below the village and would form a natural line of defence against the French. There wasn’t, Mr Norrell had decided after a great deal of walking up and down and frowning at it, anything that could be done with it. Or at least not without it also proving of great inconvenience to British soldiers who were now securing positions around the village in preparation of an attack. 

The village of Fuentes de Onoro itself straggled up the slope above the stream was a place of narrow stone-built houses clustered tightly along equally narrow and steeply cobbles streets, and as such it rather reminded Childermass of the ancient streets and yards in the oldest parts of York. 

“I do not think Wellington shall be happy with me doing nothing,” Mr Norrell said as he and Childermass walked back to where their horses were being held for them. “Yet he was most insistent that I did not make it rain. I do not know what he expected me to do with it otherwise.” 

Childermass nodded, but did not utter a reply. Partially this was because he knew that when his employer spoke in such a way he was not looking for solutions to be offered, rather he wanted agreement that he was correct and that nobody could have done any differently than he. The other reason was that he had felt the atmosphere in the village change during the scant hours they had been there. Although not immediately apparent there seemed to be something more hurried in the way that buildings were being secured, the roads blocked and cover for the rifle brigades constructed. He did not speak of his fears, rather he prevented Mr Norrell from stopping too frequently on their walk to complain about how too much was expected of him, and as a consequence delaying their departure still further. 

“Were are our horses?” Childermass asked as they arrived in the yard of the inn where they had left them. “We need to return to Vilar Formosa now.”

“I do not know, but in any case leaving is quite out of the question, sirs,” said a Lieutenant who had been talking to the inn keeper in a mixture of hand gestures and poorly pronounced Portuguese. He spoke briskly to them, for he did not have the time to engage in debate. “The French have begun their advance and cavalry patrols have been sighted on the road. You shall have to remain here until we are done.” 

So pale had Mr Norrell gone at this information that Childermass wondered for a moment if he might faint with the shock of it, and he took hold of his arm, fingers digging in a little harder than he knew would be welcome in an attempt to anchor him consciousness. 

“Is there no way?” Childermass asked, although he was already half certain of the answer. He felt fear coil within him although he let none of it show on his face. It was not a feeling he was accustomed and he hated how it seem to hang over him like the build up of pressure before a heavy summer storm. 

“I suppose you could attempt to wait until dark and try to outride the French, but I should not rate your chances,” the Lieutenant said and then he nodded politely. “Now you must excuse me, I have much to do.” 

“We must find somewhere safe,” Mr Norrell said sounding rather disconnected from what was happening as the Lieutenant moved away. “We can’t let them take my books. Oh why did I bring them with me? I should have left them back at Vilar Formosa. I was only supposed to look at this wretched river. I shall not make such a mistake again.” 

“We will be safe, there seems to be half the British army here,” Childermass reassured him, then as they were at the only inn in the village, he escorted his employer inside and secure them a room. 

 

The battle came to Fuentes de Onoro that day. The streets were filled with noise and powder smoke. Mr Norrell had at first tried to read to block it from his mind, but the noise and bitter scent on the air he found too distracting and fearful to allow him to concentrate. So he had paced and fretted, then sat and fretted more, before finally he turned to Childermass and said, “Why are they still fighting? It has been hours. Why will they not stop?” 

It was child’s plea, one full of the need to understand why such a thing was happening and requiring comfort. So often Mr Norrell’s fears had been minor ones, easily solved by removing the offending mouse or such from his room. Yet in such a place as this Childermass had no answers or words that could hope to salve such a very real terror. 

It was only as darkness fell some hours later that the cannon and guns fell silent. The attack by the French had been repulsed, but not so decisively that they had done more than retreat out of range of British musket fire. Tomorrow, perhaps they would come again, and the test of nerves and courage would begin afresh.

Now the hour was late Mr Norrell slept fitfully, his dreams troubling him from the frowns that creased his face while in that slumber. In these dark hours while his employer slept, Childermass turned to his cards, seeking the reassurances they gave him. For even if the future the told to him was bleak it was to his mind far better to know and not to be surprized by it. The idea that ignorance was bliss drew a mocking amusement from him, as he firmly believed that anyone who was foolish enough to subscribe to this deserved everything they got and which they could have avoided had they not been too weak minded to face their troubles. It was a harsh stance, but then it had been a harsh life that had shaped John Childermass in to the man he was.

Tonight however he found himself wishing that he had waited until morning when the shapeless fears that come in the dark and weary hours of night could be more easily banished or reasoned with. The familiar cards he dealt and turned spelt out a dire warning for the days to come, one that spoke of death or life being irrevocably changed. “No.” It was whispered prayer in the dark to any that might care to hear it. He looked then at Mr Norrell caught in restless sleep. “Not him. We are not done.” He swallowed hard, some emotion sharp and nameless clawing at his throat. “We shall never be done.”

The words felt pulled from him, the admission far greater than he wished to admit even when the only witness to it was his own troubled heart and mind. For while Mr Norrell had long been his best chance at returning the Raven King and magic to their rightful place, it was no longer the sole reason he remained. He could not after more than half a lifetime imagine a life without Mr Norrell present. 

It was also unthinkable, he realised, to imagine the Raven King’s return and not have Mr Norrell at his side to bear witness it. For on the day the Raven King returned, as Childermass was sure he would, he wanted Mr Norrell there with him, and to see the long buried joy that he was all but certain lay beneath the anger his employer's expressed at the mere mention of his name. He recognised the bitterness in the other man’s voice; it was anger was born of a spurned love. For once Mr Norrell had chased the wild magic of the Raven King, had longed for it, had exhausted himself in pursuit of it, had all but ruined his health and sanity those many years past, so desperate had he been to bring it into his life. 

 

Childermass returned all the cards to the deck, shuffled them and cut them once more. Just a single card for the future. The skeletal form of death looked back at him, its eyes black and hollow as an open grave. [1]

Sleep did not come to him that night and he listened to the occasional thud of cannon and the sharp crack of musket fire in the dark and waited for a morning that he welcomed and dreaded in equal measure. 

 

Tension hung in the air like poisonous fog in the air as the sun rose on the second day, the light grey and sluggish, like it was being pulled unwillingly from its rest. So fierce had been the fighting of the day before that much of this was to be spend recovering the dead and strengthening defences. Harried reinforcement arrived to relieve the Light Companies stationed within the battered confines of Fuentes de Onoro. Yet there was no rest for those weary souls as they could hardly leave their posts now with the could Mr Norrell or Childermass although at that point it was their dearest wish. 

Darkness fell on the second night in Fuentes de Onoro with a hushed and breathless dread about what the morning would bring. The occasional shot sounded the night, but it wasn't until the sky finally brightened battle began in earnest once more.

Nobody came to tell them of how their side fared, whether it was that no one could be spared for such a task or if that in the heat of battle they had been forgotten they could not tell. Slowly the sounds of fighting, the crack of musket and rifle fire, the sound of blades against each other and cries of wounded or dying men drew ever closer. The French were gaining ground and the British were being driven back. Finally with the morning slipping into afternoon the shouting in the street in front of the inn and below the window of the room where Mr Norrell sat in hunched, terrified silence on his bed, changed from English and Portuguese to French. 

“We must go,” Childermass said darting back from the window where he'd been watching unseen. He grabbed Mr Norrell by the arm and started to pull him towards the door, responding to his employer's startled cry of ‘but my books’ with a terse, “Leave them.” 

“I cannot leave them,” Mr Norrell exclaimed in horror as if it were being suggested that he should abandon family member or a very dear friend behind to their fate.

“Then they will find you and they will kill you,” Childermass said, not caring that this would frighten him, he wanted it to, needed it to for anything less might cause him to hesitate and lose his live as he was so afraid the cards had shown. “Or perhaps they will take you to France and Napoleon will make you do magic for him. Should you like that, to be forced to turn your magic against England?”

Mr Norrell shook his head, looking close to tears at the prospect of having to chase between his own life and his books. He could not bring himself to leave them all and Childermass gave him a despairing look at as he selected three books and clutched them to tightly to his chest. 

There was no time to argue as hurried footsteps sounded in the courtyard of the inn. Pulling a frightened and still very unwilling Mr Norrell with him, Childermass lead the way quickly around the upper floor of the inn to the second stairs, one meant for the servants to use and not disturb the guests. The stairs lead down into a passageway and from there onto a side street. 

Keeping Mr Norrell close behind him, he lead them out into narrow maze of streets and yards around the inn. The British line had already retreated past their position in the centre of the village, but in the chaos and maze of streets and courtyards Childermass hoped that they might yet slip through and rejoin the army and the safety their presence would afford. 

 

TBC

 

A/N I know it's a bit of a cliff hanger, but believe me it's not as bad as the point where I'd first thought to end this part.

For anybody who is interested information about the battle of Fuentes de Onoro can be found here. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Fuentes_de_O%C3%B1oro#  
I have tried to stay as close as possible to actually event, as honestly how it happened was dramatic enough that there was no need to add to battle itself. 

[1] Childermass was well aware that the death card did not always mean actual, physical death, indeed it rarely did. However, when in a small village surrounded by many thousand French soldiers whose task was to kill did seem to make it the most likely explanation.


	10. Chapter 10

The streets and indeed every other part of Fuentes de Onoro were chaotic. The fighting seemed to have taken over every open space, even in the graveyard beside the small church at the heart of the village there was bitter conflict, the opposing armies so close to each other that formations and fire by volley had been replaced by ragged sniping and bayonet charges between the gravestones. 

Seeing no escape in that direction Childermass lead Mr Norrell back into maze of alleyways. Stone and plaster, dust, noise and above all the acrid smoke of burning homes and black powder filled the air, while above them the whistled shots from Wellington’s cannons on the high ground behind the village that were aimed at the French artillery batteries on the far side of Fuentes de Onoro, on the other side of the Dos Casas stream. Some shots fell short and more than once the tremendous weight and speed of a ball fired from one of the twelve pounders that were ubiquitous to the British artillery units splintered into the rooftops or walls of the houses.

It was a game of cat and mouse they played with the French and Childermass had little doubt which they represented. Twice they had come close to being seen. On the first occasion Childermass had pull Mr Norrell into an weaving shed and pushed him down behind wool bales, where much to their relief the small patrol of French infantry men that had been so close to finding them passed them by. 

The second time had been a good deal closer and they’d been forced to run until they’d found refuge a squalid dwelling that backed onto a slaughterman’s yard. They had crouched there, breathless and afraid, Childermass’ hand gripped tight to Mr Norrell’s sleeve, a position it had not left since he’d pulled him with him during their mad flight along cobbled streets. Somewhere in that fearful dash Mr Norrell had lost hold of the books he’d been carrying and his wig had tumbled off to be trampled in the dirt and dust. 

Wide eyed and trembling, Mr Norrell’s breath came in ragged wheezes, so unused was he to having to run. They would not be able to out distance the French by running again, Mr Norrell would not manage it, Childermass knew this with a sick certainty that played to the fears his cards had planted in his mind. 

Yet they could not stay where they were for soon they would find themselves cut off from Wellington's army entirely should the village be lost. Fortune however was not on their side, for no sooner had they slipped from the hovel, making once more towards British soldiers who were now only holding the very top of the village, did they walk into a group of three French infantry man. 

There was a brief moment of surprize as they stared at each other and which was extended when Childermass attempted to speak to them in what proved to be mostly unintelligible French. It did not buy them a great deal of time, but it was enough for Childermass to snatch up a shovel that had been leaning against a cart and swing it at the closest of the soldiers. 

 

To the shock of them both the shovel split the skull of that first soldier who had approached them and the man tumbled to the ground. There was not time to contemplate the fact that he may have killed a man, and Childermass shouted, “Stay back!” as he pushed Mr Norrell behind him.

A shovel, as Childermass was well aware, would be no use against a loaded musket and with this fact in mind and the certain knowledge that the task of protecting both Mr Norrell and himself from harm fell to him alone, he pressed his attack. Slightly further away than the first French solider had been the shovel caught this man on the hand where he had been trying to reload. With a cry of pain he fell back, his hand shattered against the side of his musket with the force of the blow.

The final French infantry man of the group was little more than a boy, wide-eyed and afraid of what he had to do and but terrified of what might happen if he did not. Realising that his fate would likely be the same should he delay, he turned his bayonet, a wicked looking thing of just over a foot of sharply pointed steel afixed to the front of his musket, towards Childermass and stabbed it deeply into his side.

Childermass had no opportunity to avoid the youth’s attack. Although in the briefest of moments before the pain made its presence known, the time between one heart beat and the next, He punched the youth hard in the nose. The young soldier dropped his weapon, the blade pulling clear of Childermass as it did so, and then he stumbled back clutching his nose, broken as it was and streaming blood. 

Freed from the sharp blade, Childermass staggered and then fell backward onto the tumbled remains of a wall. He landed heavily, and a cry of agony was ripped from him as his hands gripped tight where blood spilled out through the ruin of his waistcoat.

“Get up before more of them come,” Mr Norrell said running forward and frantically pulling on Childermass’ arm. “You cannot remain here, it is not safe.” 

The movement hurt more fiercely than anything Childermass could remember enduring and he cried out, his hands lashing in the way a wounded animal fights those who may yet aid it. Before Mr Norrell had time to complain that he was only trying to help and really did not deserve to be hit, there was a noise at the top of the street and Mr Norrell turned to see 88th Connaught Rangers streamed down, sweeping the French before them. 

The young Frenchman with the broken nose and his compatriot with the shattered hand, knowing that they could not hope to stand again such overwhelming odds as now faced them turned and fled.

Despite the volume of British troops suddenly around them there was no aid offered despite Mr Norrell pleas for assistance, as the momentum of the charge that had forced back the French now carried those same soldiers past them and away in to narrow streets. 

Alone with Childermass, Mr Norrell knelt on the ground by his side. Shaking terribly and utterly unable to form any idea of what he should do next, he had never felt more alone or helpless than in those long minutes surrounded by the horrors of war. 

“Mr Norrell!”

The shout surprized him and it was with confusion that he got unsteadily back to his feet to see Major Grant, who was rather blacked with powder smoke but otherwise unharmed, approaching him with some haste.

“I scarce recognised you with your wig, sir,” Major Grant said, barely pausing in his stride as he took Mr Norrell's arm with the intention of leading him away. “Wellington has been in a frightful mood at the idea of you falling into enemy hands. Come with me, I shall see you safe.” 

“Unhand me,” Mr Norrell said, pushing Grant’s hand from him. “I cannot leave, Childermass is hurt. So you must help me get him back to our inn, then you must find a him doctor.”

The quantity of dark blood staining the clothes of Mr Norrell’s servant and the bitter acid smell that said either his stomach or his gut had been punctured did not fill Major Grant with any hope that much could be done beyond getting the poor fellow a decent burial. He knelt down by Childermass’ side all the same and tried to take a better look, but the action drew forth such a desperate cry of pain from the injured man that he did not persist. 

Grant stood once more and shook his head. “I fear the inn is gone, fired by the French to cover their retreat, but in any case it is too late. I truly sorry, sir, but the wound is too great, there is nothing anyone can do.” Grant stopped at this point seeing the look of utter devastation on the Mr Norrell’s face. He looked around, listening intently as he did so. The fighting had moved away from their location for now. “I can stay with you, I do not think it shall not be long.” 

“No, no, no,” Mr Norrell said angrily, stamping his foot has he did so. “Will not have it. He cannot die, he can’t leave me, I shall not allow it, I won't. No, Major Grant, you must do something.”

Roused it seemed to anger, Mr Norrell was still far from frightening, and Grant thought to be on the receiving end of such anger would be rather like being savaged by a particularly irate dormouse. He was not a cruel man however and mocking a man for such a display of helpless anger brought on by grief was such a low act that he felt no gentleman should ever have cause to stoop to it. 

“There is nothing that I or a doctor may do for him,” Grant said placing a hand on Mr Norrell's shoulder, feeling how he trembled, although if it were from rage or fear he could not be certain. “Sir,” he said not knowing how such a suggestion might be received, or if indeed whether it had already tried and failed. “Are you quite sure there not a spell or some such magic that may aid him? If you believe there is, I suggest that you do not delay, for his time is short.” 

“I cannot think with all this noise,” Mr Norrell said, hunching over and covering his ears with his hands. As if to emphasize this point a cannon ball shooting overhead fell short of the French positions to strike a building just a few yards away, showering them with dust and small fragments of debris.

Grant was well aware of how much Mr Norrell relied upon his servant to both find what action he should take and the manner in which he should take it. He did not know enough of magic himself to offer any great assistance, but he tried all the same, asking Mr Norrell, “Is there anything that you have read, even if you have never before performed such a spell, that might be pertinent? Something that may heal it or least move it to say an arm or leg, where he might survive it?”

“To move it,” Mr Norrell said faintly, horrified and yet intrigued by where his own thoughts were taking him. “I should be a terrible thing. One that I should not consider, but…” Norrell looked at Childermass who was deathly pale now, his breathing so shallow and ragged that it threatened to cease altogether. He reached out a hand, but pulled it back before he touched him. His eyes never left Childermass as he spoke to Grant, “I need you to bring me a man, any will do although I suppose a Frenchman might be best, but he needs to be alive and not injured in the same location.” 

Grant stared at him. There were a great many rules about the treatment of prisoners, although admittedly most were in connection with the parole of officers. But surely any enemy solider he was to catch should be considered a prisoner of some sort, and while there was nothing that specifically stated that they should not be handed over to a magician for who knew what purpose, he found it didn’t sit well with him at all.

“Please do not speak of this to anyone, I should not like them to think I condone this old magic, but I have to try, I cannot..” Mr Norrell stopped and looked up at Grant. There were streaks through the grim and smoke stuck to his face where unacknowledged tears had fallen. “Please.” 

The plea was so heartfelt Grant found himself agreeing and subsequently trying to justify such an act by assuring himself that Wellington would most certainly agree with his current course of action. They needed Mr Norrell to able to assist them rather than becoming totally useless out of nervous exhaustion and grief, for that seemed the most likely result of him losing his most treasured and relied upon servant. 

The only French soldier that remained nearby was the one Childermass had struck over the head. He was alive, but unconscious and Grant told himself that it was likely the man should never wake from such an injury. At least that was what he repeated to himself as he dragged the man's unresponsive body over to Mr Norrell, as surely if the Frenchman was to die anyway then perhaps in his death some good could be wrought. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Grant asked, intrigued and not a little afraid at what weird magic he was about to witness. 

“Place him next to Childermass if you please,” Mr Norrell said, although it appeared to Grant that he was also half muttering other words under his breath. “I shall need to be able to reach them both. It is how it was done.”

Major Grant complied, asking as he did so, “It is in one of your books of magic then?”

“I have no time for questions, not now.”[1] Mr Norrell then knelt down between Childermass and the French man, and took their hands in his. He looked up once more at Major Grant. “Now do not let anyone interrupt me, nor do so yourself, whatever you might see.”

“I shall do my best,” Grant replied, drawing his sword and standing ready to defend them should the need arise. 

Major Grant had until that point been of the opinion that magic was a quiet and unassuming thing, for the spells that he had seen Mr Norrell perform had always been as such. So it was with some surprize that the first indication that magic currently being performed was working was the sight of blood welling up through the French soldier's uniform and dripping onto the ground. 

The air seemed oddly heavy around them in at moment, charged with something unseen and unfathomable, like a storm made of ghosts pressed close about them. Grant watched as a good number of dark feathered birds collected on the roof opposite them with some trepidation, although he was uncertain why he should feel such. 

Finally, although it was most likely mere minutes since the spell was begun, the French solider gave a wheezing, rattling breath and ceased there after to take anymore. Childermass groaned, coughed and then opened his eyes. 

“It worked,” Mr Norrell exclaimed as he got rather hurriedly to his feet. He turned to Grant, a smile on his face that was both joyous and incredibly weary, before blinking owlishly at him, swaying for a moment and then fainting into the astonished Major’s arms.

As one of Wellington’s most trusted exploring officers Grant prided himself on be able to think quickly and deal with any situation that he encountered. This was however one of the odder ones he had been called upon to deal with, he thought as he looked at the dead French soldier and at Childermass who was now on hands and knees retching seemingly as result of the magic not having removed the blood that had leaked into stomach from his now vanished wound. Finally he looked at Mr Norrell who had roused a little from his faint and was muttering something about tea into the front of his uniform.

 

***

 

The pain had been greater than anything he’d known up to that point, it had been like a living thing that had him caught in its jaws and threatened to consume him whole. That Mr Norrell had used magic to save him touched Childermass deeply. He had not expected it, not because he did not think his employer cared for him in his own odd and deeply repressed way, rather he had thought that Mr Norrell would freeze and that he would remain in that state of shock, unable to offer any form of aid until well after it would have been of practical use. No, in the brief moments before pain had stolen all conscious thoughts from him Childermass had expected to die. 

Yet now he was alive and relatively unharmed, his side, once sliced so deep as to near touch his spine was not even scarred. He was not free of discomfort however as he remained bruised so deeply that if he tried to twist or bend it hurt enough to snatch the breath from lungs. Not that moving more than the barest minimum was something he wished to do as he also felt dreadfully faint, for although the spell Mr Norrell had performed upon him had healed the wound, it did not seem to have not replaced the blood he had lost. 

Grant, with the assistance of a couple of soldiers he'd ordered aid him, had left them in a house near the church, promising to return or at the very least send somebody to assist them. Although weary and sore, Childermass did not feel he could rest, not while Mr Norrell looked so terribly affected by what he had seen. 

There was a basin and a pitcher of water on the dressing table in corner of the room. It was not fresh enough to drink, but clean enough for his purpose. Standing was an effort and the room spun disconcertingly as he carried the basin of water back to Mr Norrell, but Childermass had set his mind upon the task and would not be dissuaded. 

He tried not to think about where the blood on Mr Norrell’s hands had come from as he washed it from them. Nor did he want to acknowledge the fact he was uncertain of whether it was his own hands or those of Mr Norrell that shook the greatest. More worried was he by the fact his employer had not acknowledged his presence or current actions, nor indeed had spoken a word since Major Grant had left them, chusing to stare at some point far more distant than the wall opposite him.

The faintness which had eased whilst Childermass had knelt returned and the bowl tumbled from his hands spilling dirty water across the floor. The room darkened and spun, like he was caught in some frightful torrent of water on the darkest of nights. He stumbled, falling to his hands and knees beside Mr Norrell's feet.

Mr Norrell who had been staring, his face blank and drained, at the wall opposite him gave a startled cry, “Childermass, whatever is the matter?” 

With his hands still braced against the floor, Childermass looked up through the curtain of dishevelled hair that hung across his face. “A moment of weakness,” he said, voice sounding faint and distant as if came across a very great distance and through wall thick cloud as he clung to consciousness by little more than his own stubbornness of will. “It will pass.” 

“You should not frighten me so,” Mr Norrell said with a breathless annoyance that any who were well acquainted with him knew meant he was desperately fighting deeper emotions he was afraid to show. “Today has been most trying. They set fire to the inn you know, I have lost my books.” 

Standing or indeed moving at all Childermass decided would be a grave error, so he remained where he was trying to breathe deeply and ease the way his head seemed to spin. “Your books,” he said, trying to offer what comfort he could, although his voice was rougher even than his tones. “I am sorry, can none be saved?”

“Some pages perhaps, they threw some from the windows, the soldier with Major Grant said so. I cannot believe they are gone. That I have lost them. I cannot bear it.” Overcome by all that had happened Mr Norrell closed his eyes. His voice shook every part as badly as his hands as he continued, “And I so nearly lost you too.”

“Do not,” Childermass said closer in that moment to begging for anything than he had been since he’d been a hungry child on the street. For the the sick terror of what he might hear gripped him so tightly he could scarce think. 

“I should have been quite alone without you,” Mr Norrell continued so caught in his own fears that he did not register his servant’s words or see his distress at the topic. “I know that I am not any ease man to like, but you have stayed with me, done all I have ever needed of you, and I am so grateful. When Major Grant said that you would not survive, I could not..not.” He broke off this time with something perilously close to a sob. 

“Please,” Childermass said, his own voice little better. “Don’t talk.” 

“But I can think of nothing else, I can see nothing else if close my eyes. I am so afraid that I shall not see England again or sit in my library,” Mr Norrell said, drawing his arms about himself as he shook. “Or that I shall return alone. I should never have come here. None of this is right.”

Demonstrative displays of affection or comforting touches were not things that came easy to either of them, but this seemed such an exceptional situation that Childermass found he could think of noting else that might half so well ease the fear currently in their hearts.

Any attempt to stand and place a comforting arm around Mr Norrell was doomed to be unrealised as he had barely moved at all before another wave of faintness took him. Eyes closed, he rested his head against Mr Norrell’s knee where it had fallen, unable to find the energy to move any further.

“Childermass?” 

“ Faint,” Childermass replied weakly and not a little disjointedly. “I move. I’ll faint.” 

“Then you should not move,” Mr Norrell said, tentatively starting to pet his hair as if it should help him feel better. “I find I do not mind.”

Childermass was sure that he should mind greatly for it was a strangely intimate act, yet in his weakened state it found it oddly soothing. It seemed to slowly calm Mr Norrell as well, so he made no objections. 

They remained like this for sometime, until Childermass with Mr Norrell's assistance found just enough energy move and lay himself down upon the bed. Without another word being spoken Mr Norrell lay down beside him, his back against Childermass’ chest. He remained like this until, almost unconscious of the fact he was doing it, Mr Norrell took the other man’s hand in his own and held it tight. 

So still dressed in their bloodstained and powder smoke blackened clothes they fell into an exhausted sleep together, profoundly grateful to the simple comfort being afforded each other by their presence. 

TBC

 

 

[1] Although anyone that had acquaintance with Mr Norrell knew that what he in fact meant was ‘not ever.’ The reason behind his unwillingness to talk was two fold, one was that the spell was of the ancient and thoroughly disreputable type he had sought to distance himself from. While the second was that did not come from a book of spells, disreputable or otherwise, rather that it was from an overly dramatic and sadly (to Mr Norrell's point of view at least) romanticised history of a series of battles that had supposedly occurred between two magically enabled and warring households on the Welsh borders sometime shortly before the Norman conquest in 1066. 

 

A/N  
The retaking of Fuentes de Onoro by the 79th Highlanders, the 88th Connaught Rangers and the Portuguese Cazadores and the supremely bloody battle that followed which was fought primarily with bayonets in the narrow streets with the cost of many hundreds lives on both sides really did occur, including the fight in the graveyard.


	11. Chapter 11

Childermass remained sore and prone to faintness for a number of days following that terrible final day of battle at Fuentes de Onoro. While each discomfort individually might not have persuaded him to take to his bed together they conspired to make leaving it without assistance unwise. He had attempted it, for it was in his nature to do, but the resulting mishap of him fainting on top of a surprized and there after not a little concerned Mr Norrell had meant he had been dissuaded from doing so again. So it was that he passed his time alternating between sleep as he felt very weak and cold and being frustrated at everything he could not do. 

Mr Norrell for his part had proved to be far more attentive than Childermass would have expected and after only a few short hours much more so than ever wished him or any other to be. There was an element, he was sure, of his employer wanting to know how well his spell had worked, hence the repeated question of whether he was feeling any better, but he also suspected that a good part of it was the he was trying to distract himself from the loss of his books. Yet there was something else, something that Childermass, much to his annoyance, was unable to define. It seemed to take hold of Mr Norrell in those moments when he assumed that his servant slept, but was in fact feigning it to avoid being asked yet again about his health. It was a distant almost blank look, yet somehow it also seemed to hold far more, although whether those other things were fear or sorrow or tiredness he could not say.

Major Grant came to call on them a number of occasions during this time to enquire about their wellbeing and what he should tell Wellington in relation to when Mr Norrell might start once more fulfil his duties to the army. Wellington himself remained at Vilar Formosa organizing how best to deploy his forces into Spain, as the French following their defeat at Fuentes de Onoro and at Albuera under Beresford had, now realizing the British plan to take Almeida, quit the same destroying a good part of the walls before they did so and rendering its defensive capabilities useless to both them and the British alike before they retreated deeper into Spain. 

Wellington was not best pleased about the damage to Almeida or the battle at Fuentes de Onoro, for he felt that his forces there had been stretched too thin, so while the British and their allies had finally routed the French he barely considered it a victory at all.  
So after having seen the damage to Almeida for himself, he spent some time in heated consultation with his engineers who said the task of rebuilding the defences would be too great, he had decided that his magician may meet with success and as such he must meet with him urgently. [1]

There was however a problem in this that went beyond the loss of Mr Norrell's books, although that did vex him greatly, rather it was that he had declined Wellington's request to meet. On the first occasion it had perhaps been wise and understandable that with the battle so shortly ended that he was not feeling able to ride the short distance to meet with him. The second and most resent refusal and been taken less well, as Major Grant clearly aware that Mr Norrell was making excuses.

So after a look towards Childermass, for Grant had the measure of his relationship with Mr Norrell, in the sense that no other regardless of station or position of authority held as much power as his servant. It was odd, but from what Grant had seen of the Yorkshireman he was a very practical man and was unlikely to let his employer remain indecisive forever. Whether a servant should have such power, Grant had decided was immaterial, as he needed Mr Norrell to act and to do so fast, and Childermass had the greatest likelihood of success in this matter. 

Quite aware of what the Major wanted, and having tired greatly of both of Mr Norrell’s fretting over what little had been salvaged of his book and his frequent questions Childermass decided on a course of action. “You should go with Major Grant and talk with Wellington, you can’t delay it longer,” he said although his advice had not been sought in this matter. “Attend dinner with the officers if they ask you to, you need to be known by them..”

“But I do not wish to do either of those things,” Norrell said, looking up from the second letter he had stated to compose to Mr Strange that day. “I can think of nothing that might aid Wellington without my books and the dinner?” He looked disturbed at the mere mention of it. “ No, I really can't think of anything that I should like to do less. I have nothing in common with them. I really don't see what good could come of it.”

Staring up at the now all to familiar cracks in the ceiling above his bed, Childermass rolled his eyes at them and then said, “You never wish these things, but they are needed none the less.” 

“But what am I to wear? My clothes are all covered in dust and smoke, my stockings all have holes in them and I cannot find anybody to repair them.” He gave Childermass a most indignant look, before adding, “I should look like nothing more than a ragged street magician. It won't do at all.”

Childermass sighed, for he knew his employer's stallings tactics of old. “They shall smell of smoke as much you, the dust can be brushed away,” he paused at this point and sat a little more upright in bed, for it was getting easier to do so. “And unless there is some need while talking to Wellington to remove your shoes he shall remain ignorant of the fact the toes of your stockings have worn through.” 

“There is also the matter of my wig, I feel quite bare without it,” Mr Norrell persisted, his hand self consciously moving to where it once would have been. “Nobody has yet found it and returned it to me. And I cannot locate a suitable replacement. I have written to Mr Strange to ask him to arrange my second best wig to be shipped from London, but that shall take weeks, months even.”

“Maybe you should stop wearing one,” Childermass replied, knowing that if allowed to do so his employer would use his absent wig as a means of avoiding anything he did not wish to do for a great length of time. “Wellington himself does not wear one.”

“I am not a soldier, nor is my hair suited to being seen.” It had been some weeks since Mr Norrell had seen a barber and his own hair was, although unfashionable short, not so close cropped as to appear startling. It was however a nondescript brown that was heavy peppered with grey and inclined to twist into wiry curls that defied any attempt to smooth them. 

“Then ask for a hat,” Childermass said, patience wearing a little thin. “If you keep refusing Wellington he may take away that choice, and attending a meeting under guard will be a great deal less pleasant the otherwise.” Having said his piece, he lay back down and waited for Mr Norrell to realise that he was in fact correct.

Mr Norrell made a small sad sound, his expression one to suggest that he considered was being greatly inconvenienced to have to ride for three miles and sit down to better meal than he had received in the last week. Then with a sigh he went to find Major Grant and inform him that he would be able to speak to Wellington after all, if only he would give him time to purchase a hat and make himself rather more presentable. 

 

It was far later than Childermass had expected it would would be when Mr Norrell finally returned, the sun having dipped low enough in the sky that barely an light remained in the room. Lying in the near dark, he listened and Major Grant escorting him to the door. 

“You are sure you are well?” He heard Major Grant ask and then his employer answer that it had been the heat, and once he was rested he would of course be able to fulfil what Wellington had asked of him.

Once the Major had departed Mr Norrell came into the room, closed the door and then leant against it. So quiet and still was he that had he not seen and heard the door be opened and closed Childermass would have thought him not to have entered at all.  
“What is wrong? Are you sick?” he asked, not a little concerned at the prospect as he did not feel well enough himself to wait upon his employer in such a state, as even a mild head cold turned him fractious and demanding. 

“I do not know,” Mr Norrell replied in a very small voice. “I do not think that I am.”

It was a worrying answer for it seemed very unlike him not to have responded with a claim that it was a person's behaviour towards him that had caused him to become out of sorts. It required some effort, as it seemed to that a body needed a good deal of time to replace blood when it had lost so much of its own, but not letting that dissuade him Childermass carefully got from his bed. 

“Did your meeting with Wellington go poorly?” Childermass asked, lighting a candle on the table beside the bed as he did so. “Or was it the dinner?”

Mr Norrell did not move from the door, and his voice was thinner than usual when he replied, “I did not dine with them. I could not face them, nor the questions they should of ask me.” 

He looked decidedly wan in the flickering candlelight Childermass thought, although if anyone were to have looked at himself in that same moment they would have thought he looked the most ill, as he still looked so pale as to seem made of chalk. “Are you sick?” 

“Not in the physical sense,” he replied, before adding peevishly, “Although with my nerves as they are I shouldn't wonder if I soon weren't.”

“Your nerves are worse when you imagine things to be more terrible than they really are.”

“You do not understand, things truly could not be worse,” Mr Norrell said miserably. “I have lied to him, and the good Major knows that I have, for I told Wellington that it was not possible to take a life with magic. Yet I have killed a man and with magic no less.”

“Who?” Childermass asked sharply, for the admission had surprized him greatly as until that moment he had been certain there was nothing so astonishing dark in his employer's past or he should have known of it. 

Mr Norrell flinched slightly at his tone and then said, “A French soldier.”

The memories of what had transpired during their encounter with the French in a narrow cobbled street were almost painfully sharp in his mind. While everything from the moment when he had been so terribly injured until when he had been all but carried to the room they now occupied by a private Major Grant had called upon to assist him were do disjointed and blurry as to seem like the fragments of a half remembered nightmare. He looked at Mr Norrell who was still greatly upset and wondered if perhaps it had been the young solider who had stabbed him who had died the magical death. It was war, he told himself, soldiers died in war and it was likely that if he had not been so killed that Mr Norrell and himself might not have survived. “Death is a practical thing,” he said, uncertain in that moment if comfort or advice might serve best. “You have always called yours a practical magic.”

“Do not seek to make light of this, please,” Mr Norrell replied terribly upset that anyone might think that such an act should come easily to him, for in his mind it seemed no different than being told he had the pitiless demeanour of a murderer. “It was to preserve your life that I took his, to heal you. Do you know I do not even know his name? I took his life and I did not even think of it until today.” 

“The spell,” Childermass said, suddenly feeling dreadfully cold and not a little sick at the realisation of what had been done. It was somehow worse than if it had been something done in the heat of battle. A life had been sacrificed as part of a spell, as if it were no more the glass broken and thrown into the river. “Was there no other way?”

“I could think of no other.” Mr Norrell wrapped his arms around himself, wishing to make himself seem as small as possible. “I did not want to tell you, but I cannot bear the idea the you to find out in any other way and think badly of me.”

“You saved my life.” The emotions that beset Childermass in that moment of realisation were strong and terrible. Yet they also warred with each other, as while the knowledge that a man had died so that might live sat like a cold and slick as a river rock in his chest, there was also a fierce sense of joy and pride that Mr Norrell cared so deeply and valued him so very much that he might be driven to such a desperate act on his behalf. 

“I did.” Mr Norrell found in that moment he couldn't meet his eye so great was his fear of what he might see there. So it was rather haltingly he continued, “I cannot find it within me to say it was an incorrect choice, I do not want to sit well with me. I wish it to horrify me so badly that I should never do such a thing again.”

“Yet that is not what you feel,” Childermass said, more gently than was his usual way, for he saw that kindness was might be the only thing that might help.

“It is not and it appals me,” Mr Norrell replied, “I had not thought myself capable of such an act, yet now that I have done so I find myself considering that should the situation once again arise I should do so again and carry it out with not trace of pity within me if it meant preserving you.” He frowned and thought for a moment. “Should probably extend such to a few others, Mr Strange for example.”

“And if I said I should not wish you to,” Childermass said, moving close to him. “If I told you that when my times comes, as it must to all men, that you must let me go?”

Norrell looked as if he had been struck and his eyes were wet as he said, “I do not think I could, not even if it were your greatest wish. I very much to not wish to be alone and I should be so in a great many ways if you were to leave me. I realise now I should lose more than a good servant, I should lose the only true friend that I have here, I should lose the person who knows what I need far better than I do myself and who makes my life easier in ways that I had not until recently realised.” 

It was probably the longest speech that he had heard Mr Norrell utter that wasn’t about the history or practice of magic. They were very kind words, flattering ones and it would be all to easy to let himself to be drawn in by them and to allow himself believe those sentiments were things that would last in perpetuity rather than be only a fleeting response to the stresses that they had so recently suffered. “It is nice to know my years of service haven't gone unnoticed,” he replied.

“It is rather more than that. I know this may seem truly wrong, I had thought so myself for so very long and denied that I should feel such things, but I believe I have quite fallen for you and I do not know what to do,” Mr Norrell said, approaching him but stopping just short of being close enough to touch. “This goes against everything that I had convinced myself I should want, but I have given it some thought, for cannot banish it from my mind and I find myself longing to be intimate with you. I do not know what you might wish in that way, but I am quite certain in what I should like to do to you.”

It was the most forward thing that Childermass could ever remember hearing Mr Norrell say and it stirred such thoughts as he rarely allowed himself to indulge and with them the stupid vain hopes that he never dared to believe might be possible. It was unfortunate timing considering what he had been told about the dead French soldier, but he found he could not dismiss the idea. For the idea of intimacy and comfort after what they had been through held an appeal that he could not put aside. 

The cards had spoken of love and he had all but discounted. It was a strange and delightful feeling to realise that the cards had not been wrong. There was also disappointment mingled with the desire he felt, for he was well aware that in his presently weakened state accomplishing any of those long held and well hidden desires was vanishingly unlikely. “And what should that be? What do you wish to do to me?”

“I think I should very much like to kiss you. If I may.” It was said with a great deal of shyness and Mr Norrell was blushing in a way that should have been been faintly ridiculous of his years. Yet rather than find it a source of amusement, Childermass found it to be endearing and wondered why he had never considered it to be such a thing to be so before.

“That is well, as I don't think I could manage anything else,” he said with some reluctance, for although he was much recovered he was not yet back to full health, the spells of faintness having lingered past the point where the bruising had eased to a dull ache that rarely flared to anything more troubling.

There was a look of hurt at these words and then Mr Norrell’s face fell, utterly unable to cover the disappointment and shame he now felt he should shew. “I suppose more would not be seemly. Even this… A kiss…it is not…” He stopped and a then turned away, shoulders hunched in defeat. “I should not have spoken so, it was improper. Two men, a master and a servant. If anyone should have seen us, no, no you're quite right to refuse me. Consider this a moment of madness and we shall never speak of it again. Only do not leave me, please.”

“I shan't,” Childermass said, placing a hand upon his shoulder and then slowly moving round to face him. “Do not mistake me, I am willing. If I was recovered I should bed you and do to you anything that you wish. But I am not and I do not think that I should be able to do more than kiss you tonight. Perhaps in a few more days, when I feel a little stronger. If you still want this.” 

Mr Norrell opened his mouth to speak and found he could not think of a single word to say. He repeated this action three more times before he uttered a single, surprized and breathless, “Oh.” 

Having to stoop, for Mr Norrell was a good deal shorter than himself, Childermass curled one hand against the back of the other man’s neck, while placing the other on his shoulder. They were as much from necessity as desire, as he was aware that this was the longest he had stood for in five days, and as such he was already starting to feel a little weak and breathless.

Childermass had kissed a number of people before, some of them male, but it had been some time since the last occurrence and he found himself almost as clumsily eager as Mr Norrell. Mr Norrell had shortly after the start of the first tentative kiss curled his hands into the old, time-soften shirt Childermass wore to bed, holding on tightly as if were afraid the other man should vanish if he did not.

It was only a short time before Childermass felt weak at the knees and not little short of breath, although this feeling was sadly due more to the effect of injury than any great skill that Mr Norrell had in kissing. Moving back a little, he rested his forehead against Mr Norrell’s. He did not wish for this moment to come to an end, but neither did he wish spoil it by persisting until he was unable to stand. 

There was a smile upon Mr Norrell's face that was as much one of stunned amazement as it was of pleasure. “That was…” he stopped, his smile becoming rather more shy. “Oh Childermass, I had not realised how this should feel. It is…oh I'm not sure I can do it justice with words.”

Childermass stroked his thumb against Mr Norrell's cheek. “I wish I could show you more tonight, what other pleasures there are to be had.” He swallowed thickly, frustrated with his own weakness. He steadied himself by holding on a little tighter to the other mans shoulder, then said, “I should return to bed.”

“You may come to mine, if you wish,” Mr Norrell suggested, still half afraid that he should be refused or mocked for it. “I do not expect you to do more than sleep, it’s just that I should like to have you beside me. It is a very safe feeling, knowing that you are so close.”

There was a risk in these things, but that was the way of many of the best things in life, and Childermass agreed, finding the proposed situation much to his liking. He was not careless however and he requested that Mr Norrell locked the door and that for good measure a chair should be jammed under its handle. Although this was not the first time they had lain in bed together the circumstances were much altered, for falling asleep next to each other upon the only available bed whilst fully clothed and hurt and weary from battle could be accepted and understood, them both making ready for bed and it being a deliberate act might be ratter harder to explain if they wanted to avoid a scandal. Not least because now, and at Mr Norrell’s own insistence, there was a perfectly good second bed in the room. Satisfied that with these precautions they should not be accidentally seen, Childermass lay down in Mr Norrell's bed and waited for him to undress. 

Once he was dressed in his nightshirt, Mr Norrell lay down beside him. There was a distance between them at first, but after a moment, and still a little hesitant in taking the lead, he placed an arm around Childermass and shuffled closer until his head rested against the other man’s chest. 

Childermass responded by placing his own arm protectively over him. Then after stifling a yawn, he pressed as small kiss to Norrell's hair, for it was the only part he could reach without having to move. After which he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

Mr Norrell lay awake for some time after this watching Childermass and trying understand all the strange feelings and desires that now beset him, until finally he slept also. 

TBC

[1] This idea had been formed when one of his advisors had remarked upon the so called Miracle of York where Mr Norrell had caused stone statues to come to life and to move and even speak. The idea of the stones from the great city walls of Almeida growing legs and rebuilding themselves and all the while complaining about French having knocked them down, Wellington found an amusing image and as such resolved to ask Mr Norrell if he might do such a thing. 

A/N  
The French army retreated from Fuentes de Onoro at the end of the third day, as although they outnumbered the British troops they were short of ammunition and one of the French commanders would not commit his troops to battle. Wellington did not think of Fuentes de Onoro as a victory. Albuera was a victory for Beresford, and the French troops at Almeida did indeed abandon the city, destroying a good portion of the northern and eastern walls, as well as the cannon they could not take with them.


	12. Chapter 12

The task in hand, namely the repair of the defences at Almeida, seemed almost insurmountable. The walls themselves, where they still stood, were toweringly high and thick, it was an ancient citadel made anew for the modern age, the wall tops which once held archers defending against Moorish hordes now sprouted cannon like strange metal plants broken through the time-worn stones. At least this was the view of the city’s walls if one approached from the south or west, for on the other sides the stones and cannon that had once crowned those walls lay in ruinous heaps beneath gaping holes in the masonry.

It was at the foot of one such tumble of stones that Mr Norrell now stood. He had not, were the truth be told, wished to come at all and he had certainly not wanted to do it alone, but Wellington did not wish further delay. So fearful of what might be revealed about what had happened in Fuentes de Onoro should he refuse or delay, and not wishing to alter the strange new intimacy that he was developing with Childermass by moving them both to uncertain lodgings in Almeida, he had agreed to ride to the city and make an attempt upon it. 

Wellington had had a great number of ideas about how it might be accomplished and Mr Norrell found, capable of great feats of imagination, Mr Norrell decided after having to discount the General’s latest suggestion of whether some kind of tame giant might not be summoned to aid them. It was in moments such as this that he was relieved that Mr Strange were not there, for if two such imaginations combined he dared not think what inadvisable and wild magics might have been performed. [1]

Finally and after a great deal of thought Mr Norrell had come to the conclusion that the greatest problem lay in the fact that stone was heavy to move and difficult to shape, if it could be made lighter and more malleable then the task of clearing it and rebuilding breaches would prove much simpler. There were a great deal of spells about the transformation of matter from one state to another, some of which were useful and others which were not. [2] A great deal of them were not as well tested or respectable as Mr Norrell would have liked, however when he was confronted with the choice of using them or having to admit defeat he found himself suddenly quite willing to perform them.

The tumbles of stones could be turned to water and would wash way, solving how to move them. It would then be a matter of producing suitable replacements and securing them in place. This proved to be a far greater problem than removing the broken stones had been, however after some thought and he came upon a solution. The breaches were covered in planking and loose stones and earth were packed between these to form the roughest of walls. This was accomplished by ordinary means of hard labour, much of it supplied by the French troops captured during the battle. Once the retaining plank walls could bear no further weight, which proved to be at a depth of around three to four feet, it was time for Mr Norrell’s magic to be employed and to turn earth held there in to stone. 

It was not the most visually impressive of magics and until the planks were removed to begin the task afresh on a new section of wall it was impossible to see that anything much had been done at all. Which was as a fortuitous thing Mr Norrell was to discover, as magic was very much frowned upon in Portugal and Spain, the staunchly Catholic locals making little distinction between it and the bases forms of witchcraft. If there had been much of a magic tradition there it had long since been hidden or layered in biblical imagery to avoid the wrath of the inquisition. 

While it had taken only a day to clear the rubble and a further one to let the surrounding ground time to dry the task of rebuilding stretched out into weeks, the engineers on Wellington’s staff predicting that it would take around a month if the work was carried out each day at the same speed and without fail or pause for the sabbath. This final suggestion was not well, and Wellington agreed that one day's rest in seven was necessary for morale. These four extra days in addition to the predicted month accomplish the task were permissible to his mind as this was a great improvement over the initially predicted timescale of eighteen months at the barest minimum. Consequently Wellington remained happy with this new faster timescale and often after checking on other matters rode past to view its progression. 

It was wearisome work for all those involved, whether it was the men whose task it was to shape the planks, those who dug the earth and packed it behind the plank retainers or indeed Mr Norrell himself. The weather was unpleasantly hot with very little breeze or rain and work had to be halted in the hottest parts of the day as those who normally resided in the city had told them, less the oppressive heat caused them to sicken and faint. 

Despite the tiring nature of the spells he was employing and that it would involve a two hour ride twice a day Mr Norrell made the journey from Fuentes de Onoro to Almeida each morning, performed his magic upon the walls and then returned to his lodgings and Childermass again each evening. It was not an easy task, but Mr Norrell was a stubborn man and not one to admit that he may not have made the best choices. He was also rather adept at justifying things to himself and so it was after the first day of such activity, he had convinced himself that the weariness it brought him was in fact a blessing in disguise. 

Sleep which came almost as soon as his head touched his pillow was thick, heavy and so very warm where Childermass’ arm held tightly about him. The worries concerning what he had done and what he might be called upon to do which he had expected to plague him were dimmed, their potency lost amidst a sea of weariness and for that he was very grateful.

Although Childermass’ health had continued to improve and would have been able to accompany him to Almeida, he did not. Mr Norrell had in a rare moment of decisiveness informed him that he required him to remain where he was try to affect a repair of what fragments remained of his books or if that was not possible to carefully copy them and source new binding materials. Mr Norrell's logic in this ran thus; books were inherently safe things and entirely unlikely to cause harm, provided you were careful in what you read. Childermass was also safe and more than that he understood that books were to be treated well and cared for. It was the perfect solution, he had decided, to keep his most precious things safe together. 

Childermass also found this arrangement to his liking and he had used this time and freedom to his advantage. He had done as Mr Norrell had asked with regard to his books, because he was nothing but attentive where matters of magic were concerned, but he had also employed a good deal of his time on business of his own chusing. A great deal of this was the acquiring of information both about what was happening with regards to the war with France and what was occurring back in England. 

The other matter with which he chiefly employed his time was the procurement of a pair of pistols, such as a coachman might use, for he felt he could no longer travel unarmed or protect Mr Norrell should the need arise. This was not a complete departure in character for him, as he had carried pistols occasionally back in England, on those journeys where he had expected to encounter trouble or he was carrying something of value. It had not been wise to ride with them loaded or so he had been informed upon acquiring them, and so on the rare occasions he'd drawn them to scare away would be thieves it had been the threat of use that had succeeded for they were as empty of shot as on the day he had purchased them. 

He could not hold to the hope of bluffing such aggressors here, and so he had practiced with them as much as he could, but opportunity and spare ammunition was not always easy to acquire. By the end of the first week however he was confident that he could reload them without difficulty and fire them. Whether it would strike its target in the intended location or indeed at all was rather less certain, but there was a comfort in their presence and the defence the represented. As he was now certain that he been so armed when they’d been surprized in the street he could have much better protected them and perhaps he Mr Norrell might not have been driven to such magic as he had. He was also certain that he would never again allow such a situation to arise. 

So it was as the week ended and the tasks that Childermass had set himself grew less pressing he found his thoughts turning to Mr Norrell and the change in their relationship. He had worked for him for a great many years and had long ago come to the conclusion that his employer did not feel desire for anyone in the way that world assumed all men did. There were those who would have even argued that the man was incapable of even the most superficial forms of friendship. Indeed there had been a time, albeit a brief one, when he himself had seen Mr Norrell as purely a means to an end, that end being the return of magic and the Raven King. That time, the one before he’d known what hopes and dreams lay beneath the small worried frown that peered out from behind little round glasses and an ever-present wig, had long past. This was not to say that Mr Norrell was an easy man to like or to know, for it was very difficult to get a sense of the man at all, so adept was he at hiding every part of himself that didn’t relate to long and tedious discourses on magical theory. 

Childermass smiled at this thought, because while he was often frustrated by his employer’s odd, fussy ways, he could not help but consider Mr Norrell as one of the best friends he had ever had. He had shewn trust in him and respected his opinion in all things. He had accorded him far greater privileges and freedoms than that a man of his standing or past activities could reasonably have hoped to attain. Nor did Mr Norrell seem to care about his past; he’d not asked after it beyond a single question enquiring as to what had his previous employment been on the day he had hired him. 

Despite the new found intimacy between them Childermass didn’t imagine for a moment that he would cease to be in Mr Norrell’s employ, for if he did it would become uncommonly difficult to explain his continued close company. Whether the intimacy they shared would progress beyond the clothed touches and sleep-filled kisses that occurred before they slept he was uncertain. He found it did not overly trouble him if it did not nor if it took some time before it progressed further. He had never thought to have such a strangely wonderful thing as Mr Norrell’s affection freely given to him, and as such he was willing to wait. 

What did trouble him however was that Mr Norrell exhausting himself in his current activities and he was determined not to allow this situation to continue unchanged. Mr Norrell was his past, his present and his future, and perhaps everybody’s future were magic to return in the way his cards promised. So it was that he had arranged it with the assistance of Major Grant to find them suitable lodgings in Almeida. 

Once this had been put in place and with Mr Norrell already left upon his business there, Childermass waited for the hottest part of the day to pass before he too rode out of Fuentes de Onoro. Accompanied only by the mule carrying their possessions, he found the ride a pleasant experience and not as tiring as he feared. The dry, dusty countryside of northern Portugal was a poor substitute for the rolling, rock pierced moors of Yorkshire, but there was a wildness, here in the places where people were that called to him all the same and made him feel welcome. 

The ride passed without incident and he was very close to Almeida when anything of interest happened at all. The faint buzz of familiar magic, like the sound of distant bees upon the mind, gave him pause. It was not an unpleasant or unfamiliar sensation as some magics could sometimes be for Childermass knew the feel of Mr Norrell’s magic very well. Halting under the spreading branches of huge and ancient tree, he climbed down from his horse and leant in the shade. 

It was a strange sight to see the small figure of his employer. Still wigless and dressed in clothes that made no compromise for the heat, he was standing upon a substantial ladder that had been placed against the city walls and which was being held steady by a pair of bored looking young ensigns.

Mr Norrell for his part did not look at all comfortable in his exposed position, with one hand pressed against wall and the other clinging tightly to the wooden rungs. Although his view was that of the back of Mr Norrell’s head, Childermass would have been correct in assuming that the other mans eyes were tightly closed both in concentration and in fear of the height he now found himself at. 

The spell seemed to take a great deal of time to perform and Childermass was growing concerned that Mr Norrell had over reached himself when finally the hum of magic faded. There was a pause and then very slowly, he descended the ladder. Once he had gained solid ground beneath his feet, he walked a few very shaky steps before sitting down heavily on a pile of planks. The ensigns released the ladder, and one passed him a canteen of water. 

The weary nod with which it was accepted brought once more the odd tender feeling that came into Childermass’ heart when saw Mr Norrell in such unguarded moments. It made him wish very much to be the one offering this small act of kindness. It was not an entirely selfless act for he also wanted the reward for it; the shy, pleased smile that appeared so briefly but conveyed so well the surprize and happiness that his employer displayed whenever he was accorded care. 

Leaving the shade, Childermass lead his horse and the mule over to where Mr Norrell, who looked very small and tired beneath the towering walls, sat. 

Mr Norrell was surprized at his approach, but his expression was one of horror rather than happiness. “What has happened? Have the French returned?” he demanded as Childermass halted before him, before looking around fearfully for the enemy expected to appear at any moment. “Are my books safe? Are you?”

“Nothing so terrible. Wellington is to make his headquarters here,” Childermass said, using some of the information he had gathered. “I have done what I can with the books, but there is little in a small village of use for such things. This city shall serve us better.” 

“I liked where we were. Nobody troubled us,” Mr Norrell said sounding most put out that he had not been consulted about this move. “And what of us?” He spoke more softly now, although the ensigns had moved away and were clearly uninterested in listening in on what he had to say. “What of us…the nights…I do not wish it to end.”

“It shall not end,” Childermass said, letting his hand brush against Mr Norrell’s for the briefest of moments. “I have no wish for such. I told Grant you should need somewhere quiet, where you and I could discuss magic without fear of being overheard.”

“He believed such a thing?” 

“Is it not the truth?” Childermass answered. “Do you not ask me to find the things you need for spells? Do you not ask for my assistance in these things?” 

“Of course I do,” he replied snappily and with little grace as was his way when he felt discomforted by a situation. “It is only that I do not wish him to think that you know magic in a practical sense and inform Wellington of such a ridiculous thing. It is not that I do not think you able enough in what you do, but magic you understand needs to remain the preserve of gentlemen if it is ever to be considered a respected profession.” 

The stark and unfeeling admission that he was still no more than a servant hurt in a way that Childermass had not quite expected it to. He believed himself to be quite inured such comments and Mr Norrell was quite correct in his assumption that if magic were to stand with the medical profession and clergy as bastions of English intelligence and propriety then it would have to admit only men of the same standing. Once it had returned and magic again filled every rock and stream and leaf and the Raven King and his wild company travelled the roads it would be different. Childermass consoled himself with this thought insofar as he could, for a small part of him had started to worry that he should not live to see the day when his king came home. 

“Where are these rooms the major has found for us?” Norrell asked, quite ready by this point to find fault with them however well appointed they might be and demand their return to Fuentes de Onoro and the comfort of the familiar. When Childermass had not answered he added, “Do not stare at me so. It is unnerving and you know well that I do not like it. I’ve been very clear on that many times.”

Childermass scowled as bit back what he wished to say, which was that Mr Norrell had been very clear many things. There was nothing to be gained by it, and he was well adept in knowing which battles were worth fighting, and for all that it lay stone-like in his chest, this was not one he wished to engage in. So he placed a hand on the reddened skin on the back on Mr Norrell’s neck and said, “You have caught the sun. You should be more careful.” 

Mr Norrell flinched at the touch for he had not expected it and because it was a little tender where the sun had burnt a thin strip of skin between the edge of his hair and the top of his cravat. “It is not my fault,” he replied sulkily. “I have lost my hat. I placed it down somewhere this morning and I cannot remember where. I am a busy man I cannot be expected to remember everything.” 

Childermass refrained from pointing out that if that were the case it could hardly be argued that anybody else was to blame for it. “Then I shall find you another,” he replied. “But first you should get out of this heat, it does no man good, I’m sure of it.” 

 

TBC

 

[1] In fact Mr Norrell had dared to imagine it and it had distressed him as he felt quite certain that Strange would take to such odd and wild magic very well and would as a consequence of it turn away from him and their studies together. 

 

[2] The transformation of one element to another, both in the disreputable study of alchemy and in magic had long been experimented on. One notable incident that no doubt came to Mr Norrell’s mind when considering what to was an event some centuries before involved a castle in the Welsh Marches. Its Lord had desired it moved to a more pleasing location, so he had the castle bespelled so that its stones weighed no more than air, however before he could have it moved a great storm rose up and the castle was lifted into the air and carried away on the wind. Some claimed that it floated still, somewhere high above the Welsh mountains, while others claimed it might have drifted eventually to the Americas. Mr Norrell found such speculation farcical, for such as spell would have decayed rapidly and the castle should not have remained airborne for more than a week at most.

 

A/N   
Sorry how long this has taken (work, a cold and generally rubbish time management) and I owe people so many comments for the last part. I will attempted to get caught up on those this evening. The next part is written up mostly on paper, so I just need to find typing time this weekend.


	13. Chapter 13

The lodgings that had been found for Mr Norrell in Almeida were pleasant. Located in one of the older quarters of the city, the grand old house, had been opened to the use of British officers by its owner, the wealthy widow of a Spanish Don. She was of Irish decent and her decision solely based upon the fact that she had heard Wellington had been born there. She herself did not reside there, having left for Lisbon and the coast some years previously for her health and it was rumoured the company of naval captain. 

The room Mr Norrell had been allocated was near the top of the house and had once been the room of the eldest daughter of the family. Well furnished and to his delight containing book cases filled with beautifully bound tomes, he quite forgot that he was trying to be angry being uprooted without any consultation on his part. It was disappointment that he found most were religious texts and the occasional volume of poetry. There were a few histories and one rather childish volume of the fairytales and folklore of the region, which he supposed he might try if nothing better could be found. 

The room also contained a connecting door to a much smaller and plainly furnished room that had belonged to Julia, for that had been the young woman’s name, maid and companion. As no officer wished it for his own it was given over to Childermass to use on the condition he should vacate it for an officer happened to change their mind. 

There was little time for Mr Norrell to enjoy rest in these new lodgings as a scant hour after their arrival there there came a knock upon the door. It was Major Grant come to inform him that in light of his removal to Almeida and his continued excellent work upon its defences Wellington had requested his present that evening to dine with him and his staff. 

Mr Norrell had no wish to do so, for social gatherings made him feel most uncomfortable, but the atmosphere between him and Childermass was so poor at that moment he found himself agreeing in the hope that whatever that had annoyed him should be forgotten by the time he returned. This atmosphere was a baffling thing to Mr Norrell, for Childermass had unpacked their belongings and done all the things a good servant should, before sitting down to write to both the staff at Hurtfew and at Hanover Square of their new accommodation and to request that some clothing might be sent to them. 

Truly there was nothing in his actions that suggested he was unhappy with their situation and he had not voiced any such concerns, and neither was he a man much inclined to stay silent on such matters. Yet there was something sullen about him, how he sat purposefully turned away from Mr Norrell. So it was that he, who was usually completely unaware of such things, became certain that Childermass was greatly annoyed about something. The difficulty lay in that he couldn’t begin to think what it might be. It had after all been entirely his own fault they were moved in the first place. 

As a result of this disquieting atmosphere Mr Norrell agreed to the request to attend dinner. The idea that Childermass was annoyed at him settled into Mr Norrell’s mind and proceeded to spread like a blot of ink on wet paper until the thought was so consuming that he could bring no other to mind. He ate and drank because it was polite and expected of him, he found he took no pleasure in the meal or the company. Although it had to be said that it was rare he found any in such gatherings at the best of times. 

It was very unkind of Childermass to make him worry, Mr Norrell had decided, especially as he knew how much being vexed and worried upset his constitution. He had made up his mind to return there and then tell him this when the decision retire to the drawing room for further drinking and conversation was taken, and the worried little magician was taken with them. 

Such a development as this was an alien experience to Mr Norrell, for although he had found himself present at parties and soirees in London, he had invariably left by the time the evening progressed to such a stage. Nor was this gathering he discovered half so polite an occasion as those genteel parties as topics of conversation turned most ribald as brandy replaced wine as the drink of choice and the evening progressed.

As a consequence Mr Norrell found himself blushing and squirming in his seat out of embarrassment. Although he had lived much of his life shunning company he had thought himself wise in the ways of the world and in what well bred people should converse about. That such senior and respectable officers should talk so openly and in such detail about their visit houses of ill repute and how they hoped their wives should never come to hear of it astonished him. He had thought such vices to be something that was more indicative of lax morals people claimed to be the preserve of the lower classes. 

“All this talk has put me in a mind to call upon Senora Helena and her daughters this evening,” said Captain Mountford, who had been one of the officers who had made such mocking comments towards Mr Norrell on their depart from Lisbon. “Are their any who wish to accompany me?”

“If you are courting one of these girls why should you wish another with you?” Mr Norrell said, realising only as the Captain turned to stare at him that he had spoken aloud. 

“I court them all by the hour for a very pretty price.” Mountford smiled as a wolf might when considering a lost sheep. “Perhaps you should join us, sir. I think Senora Helena should be much of an age as yourself.” 

This brought amused laughter from a number of the men present and Mr Norrell went redder still. He looked down, unable to meet any eyes, a hot shame that he could never quite define coiling about chest. Laughter when the subject of such was unknown was worrying, for he always suspected that it might be directed at himself. This was worse, for he had complete certainty that he was the object of their mockery and that all seemed to agree that he was deserving of such

“Although I doubt he would know what to do with her,” Mountford added, for he was still quite assured of his own wittiness.

“She would show him, I am sure,” a lieutenant said, not unkindly, but it was clear he wished to find favour with his captain than soothe Mr Norrell’s. “I’ll wager a good many young officers will get their first taste pleasures with her or her girls.”

“I think I should pay to see that,” Mountford declared loudly. He looked at Mr Norrell, whose face now wore a look utter fright. “What do you say? Shall I pay to see you?”

Major Grant, who had until that point been in conversation with Colonel De Lancey and Wellington, noticed what was happening. He politely excused himself from his senior officers and then moved to very deliberately between the still lost for words Mr Norrell and the other men. “Are you well, sir?” he asked, hesitating to place a hand on the small, hunched shoulders less he startle him. “You are a little flushed. Perhaps you should rest” 

“I caught the sun today, that must be it,” Mr Norrell replied, his voice shaking as he did so, feeling weak with gratitude at being given a way out of what he felt was an intolerably embarrassing situation. “I think I should retire for the night. Gentlemen, major, thank you.” He nodded politely to them and then all but fled the room. 

The evening breeze that was blowing through the wide cobbled streets was mercifully cool on his face and Mr Norrell leant against the wall, fearing that his legs might not hold him should he take another step. It was the shame of not being able to stand up to them and tell them what they said was uncalled for that hurt the most. It had ever been such in his experience, he hated it. Worse though to his mind was the terrible feeling of inadequacy often over took him after such unsettling events.

Major Grant joined him there a few moments later. After considering the small, unhappy figure, who looked as if he wished that the shadows might swallow him whole to avoid further embarrassment, he said, “I am sorry. I would have intervened earlier had I but heard. The stresses of war can bring out vices in us all. They mean no harm in what they say, but they forget their good manners in these things.”

Mr Norrell nodded forlornly at this. He did not think it a good excuse, but he could not bring himself to argue with Grant, as he had been the only one in the room who seemed to care for him. His cravat rubbed his sore neck, the small amount he’d drunk sat sickly in his stomach. The he could hardly go back inside, yet returning to Childermass who might still be unaccountably annoyed with him filled him with the fear that he would find himself so very alone tonight when he desperately wished it to be otherwise.

“I shall walk with you,” Grant said, taking pity on him. He also knew he could hardly let Wellington’s magician wander the streets upset and alone, less somebody pick pocket or French agent, took him as an easy target. “A little fresh air is welcome after a few drinks, I always find. I shall join them for cards later and by morning all this shall be forgotten.”

‘Thank you, Major,” Mr Norrell said walking beside him. “It is good of you.”

“If they knew you they should not speak so poorly to you,” he said earnestly. “What I saw you accomplish in that street, I cannot understand it and I am not sure I should ever wish to see the like again. All I can say, sir, is this. I am glad that you are on our side and that you are not easily roused to anger, for I do not wish to think what you may do if you were.” 

Mr Norrell was sure this was meant as a form of flattery rather than an admonishment and he smiled briefly, before nerves and his natural uncertainty stole it once more. 

Childermass was reading when Mr Norrell returned. Sitting by the window in Mr Norrell's own rooms to catch the last golden rays of the late evening sunlight now that mid summer was approaching, he looked troubled and barely interesting in the work open on his lap. He looked round at at him with whose dark and knowing eyes that knew so much, and in them swam something wordlessly angry and terribly resigned to the fact that he could not change whatever it was that troubled him so. He put the book aside and stood. “Shall I ready you for bed?”

“You are still angry with me,” Mr Norrell said resigned to the fact that he must face the situation, for he had come to the unhappy conclusion that the day could not get any worse and he therefore might as well get all the unpleasantness over and done with less it spoil tomorrow as well. “I do not like it.” 

“You imagine it,” Childermass replied with poorly disguised ill temper. 

“I do not,” he replied crossly. “I do not like it when you argue with me. It is unsettling.”

Childermass gave him an insolent look and crossed his arms. “I am not arguing.” 

“You are not agreeing with me and that is very nearly the same thing.”

Childermass took half a step towards him and then stopped. “Is that what you want?” he said sourly, as if a bitter thing that had long resided in him wished its presence to now be known. “Do you wish for a more agreeable servant? One who does no more than than is asked of him? Someone meek and bland? Perhaps you should write to Mr Lascelles. I am sure he could recommend such a fellow, one who has been beaten until he knows his place. Do you wish for that? Do you?” 

Mr Norrell flinched as if he had been struck for he was unused to anyone raising their voice towards him. He try to look indignant that Childermass should have dared such a thing, but he could not prevent the tremor in his voice when he spoke. “I have said no such thing. I do not understand why you are so very cross with me. If you did not wish to leave Fuentes de Onoro why did you arrange for such a thing to happen? I did not want that and I certainly do not want this.”

“It is not that,” Childermass replied weary with the ways of the world, the war between his head and heart clearly writ upon his face. It was a frightening thing to see a man of such fierce decisiveness and certainty caught in a storm of indecision. 

“Then tell me what it is I have done,” Mr Norrell said finding himself upset by everything that had happened that evening that he was quite willing to plead if it should mean Childermass would cease his crossness, draw him close as had become his way in recent days. “Whatever it is I am very sorry for it. Only do not be angry with me, please. I cannot bear it.”

Childermass closed his eyes and swallowed down the knot of emotion that Mr Norrell's unhappy face had wrought. “Damn you, I cannot fight this,” he swore. It was softly said so that it seemed an admission defeat. There was naked fear in his face, for in that moment he knew he was lost. The heart would have what it wanted, regardless of how every thought said such a course of action should destroy him in the end, for he would always be a servant in his employers eyes and what they shared here would likely never survive once back in London. To be in love, for he would not lie to himself that it was anything other, was a terrifying thing. It made him feel weak in ways that he would have found sharply amusing in another man not so long ago. His battle with reason lost, Childermass pulled the startled Mr Norrell close and kissed him with an eager desperation that left them both breathless. 

Still a little concerned that Childermass might suddenly push him away, Mr Norrell took a firm hold upon his waistcoat. This hold did not last however, as quite caught up in the moment, he let one hand slip until was placed over the growing swell in the front of the other man’s breeches, stroking it until he felt the fabric start to dampen under his touch.

“Wait, this is the only time that we shall get to do this,” Childermass said, placing his hands upon those of the other man and stilling the movements which threatened to bring him to completion before he so much as had a chance to undress. “I wish this to last.”

Mr Norrell gave a startled cry that was all alarm and no pleasure. “Whatever do you mean? I shall want this again. I have wanted this for…” He bit his lip as he looked up at Childermass, aroused and fearful, and unable to deal with either emotion at that moment . “Do you fear that we shall not live much…or do you know? Is this why you were so cross? You know I do not think well of your cards, but if they tell you something terrible shall happen to us, I would have you tell me.” 

“No, it is that we all only get one first time with a person, regardless of how many more times there may be.” He stroked Mr Norrell’s lip with his fingertip, trying to soothe his fear, for it had never been his intention. “I wish you to remember this fondly, it no more than that.” 

“Yet it could,” he replied, his words a little distorted against the finger tip that remained upon them. “And I fear it, for it is in my thoughts every day since That Day, and I cannot rid myself of it.”

“Speak no more of it now,” Childermass said, his finger moving now over both lips, for his own mind had been similarly troubled by it. “It is passed and it does no man good to dwell on such things.” 

Mr Norrell frowned at this point as if he were coming to some great and difficult decision. Childermass was about to resign himself to a lengthy conversation about why he could not let the topic of conversation go, when Mr Norrell did the most unexpected thing. He quite deliberately sucked the tip of Childermass’ finger into his mouth and pressed his tongue against it.

That sudden wet heat and soft pressure spoke of things that set raw desire uncoiling like a ribbon of fire within him, and a soft moan escaped him. Eyes dark with lust, Childermass’ voice was thick with passion as he said, “You know of such things then.” 

“The theory alone,” came the self-conscious reply as he release the finger, his expression becoming shy. “If it is not something you wish, do not feel that must. I would not have you do something you do not like. This must not be part of your work for me, such a thing, the implications that I might pay you for such things. No, no, I could not bare you to think that of me.”

“I had not considered it,” Childermass replied. It was in essence true, for he could not imagine Mr Norrell, who was so easily embarrassed by such intimacies to have solicited such services. It did beg the question of where he had heard of the practice of using ones mouth to pleasure a man. Now was not the time for such questions unless he wished to spoil the mood entirely, so he said, “It is a pleasurable act, although it takes a little practice.”

“Do you have practice?” Mr Norrell blushed at this point. “That is to say, practical experience, of these matters?”

“You have not been with a man before,” Childermass said, certain it was the truth. This was something that he had been unsure of regarding his employer, for in all the years that he had known Mr Norrell he had never known to take a lover, man or woman, to his bed. Yet he knew of the things that went on between the rich young men at their schools and colleges, in that uncanny way he knew of a great many things that most would never suspect him to be aware of. Young men in his experience were prey to the desires of the flesh, even if it was only idle curiosity that drove them to seek out such intimate company. 

“I have not, I mean to say, that I have not known anyone in the physical, carnal, sense,” Mr Norrell said, growing redder still and sounding rather concerned that a man of his years might be ridiculed for such an admission. “I did not think I cared for it.” He sighed and shook his head. “But that is not true and I feel that in such a moment as this I should offer you the truth. I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen to me if what I desired, for I have never in my life have I wished to be intimate with a woman, should ever be discovered. It was easier to put those desires away and to hide from them, for they were such rare things, than to overcome the fear.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “You think me a fool.”

“No,” Childermass replied in all honesty, for he knew how severe the punishments would be were such relationship discovered, for while money might buy a good lawyer who'd spare him the rope, he’d not survive prison or madhouse any more than the hangman’s noose. “Are you sure you wish this with me? For me to be the first to touch you like this?” 

“I would trust no other,” Mr Norrell said with absolute certainty for there was nobody that he trusted with such certainty as the man who had shared in every triumph and failure in his life for the better part of twenty years. For although in his heart he knew that if Mr Strange had been unmarried and if he had asked him such a thing he should have agreed with a fervour bordering on devotion. It would have an impossible, impractical thing however, as quite apart from the fact that Mr Strange was so much younger than himself, a man of the world and his apprentice, Mr Norrell had the terrible fear that he would, after greater acquaintance had been made, be found lacking and deserted him. It would be better to always be alone, he thought, that suffer such a lost. 

Engaging in a relationship with Childermass did not hold the same fears, he found, for they knew each other well and he doubted that any great secrets, beyond his own terrible error in contacting a fairy to raise the Lady Pole to life, remained between them. He took a breath to steady his nerves, and said, “Now if you would be so kind, I should like you to bed me as you promised, because I think I have been patient quite long enough.”

There was not a great deal that could be said to that, and being a a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words, Childermass began to kiss him once more as he started to untie his cravat. 

Their clothes were shed as quickly as they were able, for while the the rending of buttons and clothes might have in some circles been considered passionate, neither of them was prepared to damaged the few garments they had or deal with questions arising from seeking to have them repaired. Finally once they were both naked. Childermass pushed him down gently onto the bed at this point, and then sat astride him, his own longer legs, kneeling either side of Mr Norrell’s hips.

He seemed smaller without his layers of clothing, his skin soft and so very pale in the dim light [1] and Childermass was acutely aware of how easy it would be hurt him, to be too rough and frighten him without ever meaning to. “What do you wish?” he asked, “what would please you?”

“I do not know,” Mr Norrell said plaintively, wriggling against him. “Only that you touch me and that you do so now.”

“Your wish…” Childermass said, and took both their pricks in his hands, bringing those hard lengths together to slide slickly against either other, until pleasure and the anticipation of greater pleasure yet to come, was like a fire in his veins. 

Uncertain where to place his hands Mr Norrell, ran them across Childermass’ chest, exploring the warm skin and lean muscles with thorough curiosity. Those tentative touches grew bolder as heard and felt the shudders and moans that ran through the other man when he lingered upon his nipples, rubbing them and even daring a soft pinch.

How long they remained like this neither could say, for time seemed to stretch into eternity in one moment and then felt all too fleeting in the next. Close now, Childermass took hold of Mr Norrell hand and brought it between them. “Together,” he said, eyes dark and wild. “I would have your hand on me.”

 

Eager to please Mr Norrell ran his Finger tips gently across the head of the other man’s prick prick, the delicate skin there flushed and so very sensitive with the heat of passion. His other hand remained upon Childermass’ chest, where it continued to tease and occasional even pinch his nipples until they were as hard and aching a his prick. It was too much and what had been building steadily like a slow banked fire now flashed through him with the ferocity of a summer storm, and with a cry Childermass thrust wildly against Mr Norrell's hand, any semblance of control lost, until trembling he spent his release wetly between them.

Mr Norrell to his surprise found himself to be delighted of the fact that he could elicit such a reaction from him, and he continued his actions while Childermass shuddered and gasped from the over stimulation of those sensitive parts.The thought occurred to Mr Norrell that their current intimate relations was perhaps not so dissimilar from magic, a thorough grounding in theory had proved very advantageous. He was considering this when Childermass closed a hand over his own and still his movement. 

“Stop,” he said hoarsely, every nerve feeling raw with something he could no longer easily be defined as pleasure, yet still was. 

“What is the matter?” Mr Norrell asked, confused, “I had thought you pleased by this?”

“I am, but it grows to be too much.” He took the other man’s hand and lifted to his lips and kissed it. “You have worn me out.” He smiled and kissed his hand again. “Did you find your release?”

Norrell shook his head, looking a little dazed as he smiled back at him. “I was watching you. I had not been sure I would be able to please you, but I did.”

“You did.” Childermass kissed him upon the lips now, his hands in his greying curls, careless of what was drying upon them. Then pulling back he settled himself on the bed between Mr Norrell’s thighs. “Now let me do the same for you.”

It had been quite some time since he had performed such an act, but it was not something easily forgotten. Nor where the memories to be made that night, he realised. For he was sure that he should never forget the noise that Mr Norrell made as he took his prick into his mouth or the way he gripped the sheets tightly in his hands as pleas for more, breathless declarations of how good it felt and incoherent moans fell from his lips.

To see him come apart, to hear him given over to pleasure and to know that he was the cause was a powerful feeling. It occurred to Childermass then that he took more than the other man’s virginity that night, he took possession of a far more precious and fragile thing; his heart. 

Slow and steady, Childermass employed the heat and suction of his mouth and the soft, wet slide of his tongue until Mr Norrell was panting and moving in a way so wanton that he seemed quite unlike his usual reserved self. Finally with a soft, desperate cry, he arched up into his mouth, spilling himself. 

Sitting back, Childermass looked upon Mr Norrell, who looked so thoroughly debauched that he found himself wondering which other acts he might in time introduce him to and how he should look afterwards. “You enjoyed it then?” he asked with a smirk, for the ideas in his head were most graphic.

“I had not thought…” Mr Norrell stopped and looked at him with something akin to awestruck devotion in his eyes. “It is not…when I indulged in this with myself, well not this precise act, for I do not think a man alone with himself might bend so.” He stopped again in an attempt to gather his rather frayed thoughts. “I shall never forget this.” Shivering a little as the sweat from their exertions dried upon his skin, he sat up, nearly falling onto Childermass as he did so, and then began to kiss him with clumsy, wet kisses filled with the languor of approaching sleep. 

 

A little later, weary and sated though he was, Childermass found sleep elusive, and he from the bed to stand at the window. The breeze through the open fretwork shutters was cool, the city outside growing quiet as the last of the light faded from the sky. He looked back at Norrell, asleep in the bed with a blissfully self-satisfied smile upon his face as he lay sprawled atop the tangled sheets that bore evidence of their passion. 

To love was to allow yourself to be vulnerable, to give your heart, the fragile thing as it was, to another and to hope that should care for it as tenderly as you did for theirs. It was a frightening thing to surrender it, for he had long avoided placing himself in such a position. For all that he could not bring himself to wish things were otherwise. He would deal with what troubles it may cause when and only when they arose, for there were troubles enough already in in his mind, and the fear of their relationship being discovered was not the greatest those, for he knew how to keep secrets, indeed much of his life had been based upon such.

No, his greatest worry now was that there might come a point where the restoration of the Raven King’s magic would be at odds with Mr Norrell. Once he might have been certain which he might chuse and feel no guilt over it, he was loyal to his King. He knew in his heart that he would still chuse the Raven King, for he remained sure that his return was what England, and the North and poor in particular, needed. It was something greater than them all and he could not place his own happiness above them, for it would feel like a betrayal of where he had come from and of the memories of all those who had not been able to escape the poverty of their childhoods. 

He closed his eyes and hoped that such a situation should never come to pass. He wanted his King to return and he wanted Mr Norrell to remain with him, to look at him as he had this night and have this happy state between them to continue for as long as they might live. A foolish, romantic notion more suited to a poet, he chided himself, before deciding that it was weariness was to blame for such sentimental foolishness and that he should sleep before he did anything stupid such as confess it aloud. Yet returning to his own room, to spend the night alone would play into other fears, ones thick with smoke-filled streets, blood and gunfire. So after placing a chair under the handle of the door, for it had no lock, Childermass got into bed beside him. 

He found that he was no longer angry about what Mr Norrell had said. It had not been spoken to cause him upset or let him know his place. It was simply that it was how he and society saw the situation. Because the truth of the matter, as he saw it, was that while Mr Norrell might say something thoughtless and hurt his feelings it would be without realising what it was that the had done. This thought in its turn lead to another, which was the fact that it was himself who would play the game he had set in motion to the bitter end, even if it should destroy the love between them. 

It was not a pleasant thought for a person to sleep upon, it was the kind of thought that welcomed bad dreams in its wake. Knowing this he replaced it with another, one which was a great deal more complicated and at the same time very simple: I love you. With this tender notion held upper most in his mind, Childermass curled against Mr Norrell’s back and held him close, before closing his eyes and waiting for sleep to come. 

 

TBC

 

[1] The darkness had long been Childermass’ friend in a great many things. In that moment it hid the marks upon his skin, gained in the lives he once led, thief and a sailor. There was no shame in those scars to his mind, indeed to him they spoke more clearly of the cruelties of other men than it did of any failure of his own, but he was not ready to share their stories, pity nor judgement he wanted from no one.


	14. Chapter 14

Autumn was fast drawing in when the bundle of letters and a well wrapped parcel arrived from from London. Sent first to Lisbon, then on to Pero Negro, they had finally reached Almeida and the house where Mr Norrell and Childermass had resided for the summer, even after the great walls had been repaired. The arrival of these items, early in the morning, before any sensible person had woken for breakfast, had almost been a disaster. For when the knock came upon the door to Mr Norrell’s room he was still abed. This would have awkward and embarrassing for him to have to answer it while dressed in his nightshirt, however he was not so dressed, in fact both he and Childermass, who lay beside him, were quite naked.

This was not an unusual occurrence for them, as Mr Norrell, once he had overcome his natural hesitancy to ask for anything of personal nature, on this matter at least, he had informed Childermass that he found the intimacy of an unclothed touch immensely comforting, and consequently wished for it every night. Indeed, he seemed to show a far greater preference for being held like this and kissed than he did for any other act. Which was not to say that he disliked those other activities, in fact he enjoyed them greatly, the problem, as he had tried to explain to Childermass, was that he found overwhelming as such didn’t think it would be good for him to indulge more than once a week. 

Nakedness was no great hardship in Childermass’ opinion, for he found the summer nights in Portugal too hot for clothing and would have chosen to sleep unattired. Nor did he find Mr Norrell’s request that they refrain from any great physicality than kissing on most nights difficult or unwelcome restriction either, for it was still far more frequent than he was used to taking a partner to his bed. Yet to his surprize it was not act itself that pleased him most, although he did find very great pleasure in it, rather it was that in those most intimate of moments when Mr Norrell looked upon him with such fondness and devotion he found himself truly touched at the depth of emotion that was felt for him, as he had not thought anyone should ever consider him in such a manner. 

These tender thoughts however were far from his mind as there came a second knock upon the door, rather more insistent this time, followed by a call of, “Mr Norrell, are you at home?” 

Sitting up in bed, Mr Norrell looked towards the door with a look of utter panic. Unable to voice anything he was so surprized, he pulled the covers up to near his chin, so that only his small worried face peered out, caught between the blanket and his greying, unruly mass of hair, that seemed to seek to rival Mr Strange’s in terms wildness. [1] 

“I shall deal with it,” Childermass whispered, getting from the bed. “I will let no one suspect. Only get dressed, a night shirt at least, less there is urgent need for them to speak with you.” 

Slipping through into his own adjoining room, Childermass grabbed a blanket from his bed and wrapped it about himself. He then opened the other door form his room, the one that lead into the hallway to see Hernandez, who was one of the few servants who had been left maintain the property and who had stayed to make sure that no harm should come to it while filled with English soldiers, clutching a parcel and a bundle of letters. “Not so loud,” he called out, “Or you shall wake him, he has been awake half the night upon his business, and he will not take kindly to it.” 

Hernandez looked at Childermass with an expression of surprize, for he was not accustomed to be spoken to through a half open door by an untidy looking man wearing nothing but a blanket. He prided himself in his professionalism in carrying out his job regardless of whether it was to a well bred Spanish household or to heathen English soldiers as he considered them. “And who might you be, sir?” he asked, although he was half certain he should remember who the man before him was. 

To be called sir, Childermass found most amusing, and he replied a smile curling at his lips, “I am Mr Norrell’s man of business, I see to everything he needs doing and that includes preventing inconsiderate delivery men waking him when there is no need.” 

Rather offended by the fact that so disreputable a looking individual should seem to be all but laughing at him he said, “The parcel was marked for the immediate and urgent attention of Mr G Norrell, esq. Magician in Ordinary. I did not wish to hand it to any other, in case it was something that normal men should not see.”

Childermass leant against the door frame, and looked at the parcel. He could not imagine Mr Strange sending a book in such a manner, so he supposed that it must contain things that Mr Norrell had requested be sent some months before, such as new stockings, soap and writing materials. “Whatever it may contain I had better take these in, for it is my job,” he replied, knowing that this would be unlikely to meet with disagreement or suspicion.

It worked and Hernandez handed over the items, rather glad to be rid of them incase they contained something unnatural, and was then quickly on his way.

Satisfied that there was no thought in Hernandez’s head that the reason for Mr Norrell’s failure to answer the door was due to him being naked and still weary after what they had engaged in the previous night. Which, while not energetic by the standards of many, had exhausted Mr Norrell to the point where he had fallen asleep in the middle of kissing him.

Pausing to pull on shirt and breeches, Childermass then returned to Mr Norrell’s room. 

“Who was it?” Mr Norrell said, looking towards the door, half afraid that somebody might open it without warning at any moment. “What did they want? It is not the French, they are not here? Or is it Wellington? Is one of his exploring officers missing? He does not wish me to leave and ride somewhere this morning does he? I am very tired.” 

“It is none of those things,” Childermass replied with a barely concealed smirk, for he had heard the edge of accusation upon the other man’s voice and the small blush that said he did not care in the least about it. He placed the items upon the writing desk, and said, “It is the replies to the letters you sent to Mr Strange and a parcel from same.” 

Any fear that had troubled him dropped away in a moment and dressed in nothing but his shirt, Mr Norrell hurried over and scooped up the letters with a look of joy on his face. 

“Shall I see to the parcel?” Childermass asked, knowing that he would likely get nothing but the occasional mumbled comment as he found something in the letters to disagree with.

Mr Norrell looked round and waved a dismissive hand, “Yes, yes. Now I really much read what Jonathan has to say on how his studies progress and I dare say of what he has heard of me in London. I suppose that it too much to hope that the newspapers have not exaggerated or distorted my role here. ”

“I dare say,” Childermass replied, turning his attention the brown paper wrapped shape before him. The parcel contained a number of carefully wrapped items, the paper that had been used to wrap them carefully and neatly tied. The largest of the items gave him pause however as it was speckled with mildew and it suggested that damp that had seeped in the parcel at some point during its long journey. Yet it seemed a suspiciously precise affliction to Childermass, so much so that it could even have been said that there was some intelligence to it, for it was to only one solitary item that had suffered so, while the rest remain untouched. 

The item in question, he discovered upon removing its wrappings, was Mr Norrell’s second best wig. An old fashioned contrivance even by his own standards, the brown hair with its tight rows of side curls was now dappled with mildew and shedding as copiously as a moulting cat. That all other items within the parcel, whether it were stockings, a set of new quills or Mr Norrell’s preferred shaving soap were unaffected, as such it lead Childermass to suspect that the wig had been a victim of well meaning and carefully planned sabotage. Who would have done so he was uncertain, Strange was a possibility, as was Lascelles, but if he had been pushed to give an answer as to the most likely culprit he would have named Mr Drawlight. This was because he had upon seeing the wig some months previously declared it to quite the most hideous thing to have ever been placed upon a persons head and that it was offensive to any eyes who had the great misfortune to look upon it. 

If it had been him, Childermass found he felt no annoyance towards him for it, although he supposed that he should, for it meant that the untidy grey mass upon Mr Norrell’s head would likely stay for some time longer. Which in turn would allowed him to comb his hands through it, a gesture that they had both come to find surprisingly calming after a difficult day, although neither had ever admitted such a thing to each other and likely never would. 

Yet if it were Mr Drawlight who had been responsible it meant that had obtained access to the house on Hanover Square. This in and of itself was not altogether disturbing, unless one counted spontaneous redecorating a frightening possibility. Rather it was the fact that where Drawlight when Lascelles seemed sure to follow, and it was this idea that he found troubling. For of the two men, Childermass had always found Mr Drawlight to be the more tolerable. He was useful in making connections in places where Childermass knew he himself would have been unwelcome and he was also a gossip and if truth be told a flirt, and such such was remarkably easy to obtain information from with the right kind of flattery. Mr Lascelles was quite another matter, for there was a calculating intelligence and ruthless practicality hidden behind the foppish exterior. The animosity between them had been mutual, and Childermass was certain there would have come a point where Lascelles would have sought to remove him and turn Mr Norrell to his influence alone. To what lengths he would have gone to achieve such an aim Childermass did not know, nor had he had any wish to find discover it first hand, for part of him suspected that it would not have gone well for anyone. 

“Oh but this is awful,” Mr Norrell exclaimed suddenly and quite loudly, nearly dropping the letter as he did so. 

Surprized that the other man could see the wig from where he sat, Childermass resigned himself to dealing with the complaints over how poorly it had been treated, whether it could be repaired and if it could if it would be safe to wear, less the mould returned and irritated his skin. “If it cannot be repaired perhaps another can be made in the same style,” he said determined to limit the number of arguments that were like to appear. 

“Whatever are you taking about?” came the confused and a little annoyed reply.

“Your wig,” Childermass said, lifting up the offending item, which promptly shed hair onto the floor. “The damp has had at it.” 

Mr Norrell stared at it as if he barely understood what it was and then shook his head, utter disinterested. “I can’t bring myself to be troubled by it, not with what Jonathan has written to me of. Oh this ruins everything, everything I planned that we might do upon my return, for our studies together.” 

“Has he taken ill?” Childermass asked concerned now, for Mr Norrell did seem most upset by what he had read. “Or given up magic for some reason?” 

Mr Norrell looked horrified at these suggestions, “No, but it is nearly as bad. He writes that he is to be a father. When shall he have time to study now? My whole study plan for him is quite ruined.”

“He may have more time than you think,” Childermass said in an attempt to calm him, for he saw that Mr Norrell was likely to work himself into a nervous headache over this if he was allowed to continue to fret about it. “A new baby is a loud and demanding thing and there is not much a father can do but look at it and then hand it back so it may feed. I think he shall come to welcome the chance for study the quiet of your library.”

He did not look entirely convinced of the veracity of this fact, but seemed a little reassured by it none the less. Sighing, he repositioned his glasses and opened the next letter. This put him in much greater spirits, for Mr Strange had informed him of the purchase of a great number of books from the Roxburgh sale. Although once Mr Norrell realised that it would likely be some time before he could return to London and read them he became quite demoralised again. 

Despite the unexpected arrival of the letters the day progressed much the same as most of the one that had preceded it. Childermass would see to it that Mr Norrell was dressed, shaved and provided with breakfast, and would then escort him to where Wellington had based himself in the city, now that the repairs of the walls had been completed. After this he had much of the rest of the day to himself. This did not trouble Childermass in the slightest, for after the novelty of exploring the city had worn thin and the gossip gleaned from the soldiers failed to hold his interest he had turned his time and interest to learning Portuguese. It had to be said that his pronunciation was no better than his ability with French and would have been a great source of amusement and confusion to those that heard him speak it. However, as his reason for learning it was so that he might listen to others who would assume he could not understand them he did not care in the slightest what they thought. He supposed that he would do the same once they crossed into Spain.

And cross into Spain they would for the summer stalemate between the combined armies of the Britain, Portugal and Spain and the armies of France had dragged on into the autumn with little sign of abatement. The solid present of Almeida prevented any hope of the French retaking Portugal, but the twin threats of the high walled and heavily fortified Spanish cities of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz so close to the border meant that no substantial gains had been made either. It was to be a war of attrition, the French worn down and harried as much by the people of Spain and guerillieros that had gained such a fearsome reputation for their treatment of French prisoners.

So their life continued in Almeida in an strange approximation of normality. Where after a long day in Wellingtons’s company and that of a good number of his engineering officers [2], Mr Norrell would return back to his lodgings with Childermass, where they would eat together, before spending the rest of the evening reading and writing, before retiring to bed. 

They were, despite the war going on around them, as happy as either of them could remember being, secure in the comforts afforded by a grand house in the city and in the close company they now kept with each other. How they should fare once the niceties of civilised life were lost to them, when they were placed once more in the heat of battle Childermass did not know, nor was it a question he wished to ask of his cards; mere physical comfort seemed too frivolous a thing to waste a reading upon. There were other more worrying possibilities did warrant it, yet he chose not to seek answers for these either, for a terrible fear had taken root in him and try as he might he could not wholly master it. He did not speak a single word of his worries to Mr Norrell for he had no wish to frighten him. So as the nights drew in and their time in Almeida grew short, Childermass held him that little tighter, kissed him that bit more fervently, while the feelings of uncertainty and fear for the future grew within him, like a pernicious rot silently and invisibly eating at heart of a mighty oak. 

 

TBC

[1]   
There were those who might have considered such a natural, curling style fashionable, but Mr Norrell alternated between wishing to cut it short again so that it did not trouble him and wanting it to grow a little longer so that he might tie it back in a way that would make it resemble his missing wig. Childermass professed that he did not care what he did with it, although it had to be said that whenever Mr Norrell suggested that it should be cut down to its old length no scissors could ever be found no matter how hard they looked. 

[2]  
This was because they were using the visions of the defences of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz that Mr Norrell conjured for them to explore different plans of attack. Wellington had a great number of suggestions, some of which involved making soldiers fly or turn into animals to gain access to the cities in secret. Mr Norrell discounted these suggestions entirely, much it seemed, to the General’s disappointment. 

A/N  
During the real Peninsular war the walls of Almeida were not repaired as the task was to great, and so Wellington did not make his headquarters there. That the war dragged on in something of a stalemate between the taking of Almeida in the May of 1811 through the autumn of that year and into the early part of 1812 is, the situation finally changing with the siege and eventual capture of Ciudad Rodrigo in the January of 1812, Badajoz falling a few months later.


	15. Chapter 15

They had left Almeida on a bright morning in late September in the full knowledge that they would not be returning. For if events proceeded as Wellington wished they would have a secure foothold in Spain by early in the new year, or if things went poorly then they might not have need of residence anywhere but in the cold, thin soils of northern Portugal. In either eventuality their return to Almeida was not possible, so it was with some trepidation and not a little regret that Mr Norrell and Childermass bid farewell to the comforts they had enjoyed there. 

Issued once more with a tent and pack mule in addition to their own horses, Mr Norrell and Childermass found themselves riding near the front of the divisions. The reason for this was that Wellington wished to keep Mr Norrell close less he urgently needed him to conjour images of their way ahead, seeking out knowledge of whether an ambush might be hidden beyond a ridge or if the village they were approaching and in which they might seek shelter in for the night had been sacked. The reason Childermass rode there, rather than walked as was the lot of many of the servants who accompanied officers of senior rank, was that Mr Norrell simply refused to be parted from him for any great length of time now that had left the safety of Almeida far behind. Childermass made no comment on this, but looked greatly relieved by this rather than irritated at his employer’s frequent demands on his time. 

The warmth of summer had lingered in those early autumn days, where the mornings were soft with dew and evening light turned thick and golden as honey in the setting sun. Yet those days, that were also mercifully free of combat, faded as October progressed and cold, damp drizzles and harrying raids by French cavalry and skirmishing units began to plague them. These encounters were not on the scale of what they had been party to in Fuentes de Onoro they increased the feeling that they were no longer as safely protected as they had been in in Almeida. 

The advance into Spain had been gradual, but as December drew in and Christmas approached, the knowledge that the new year would bring with it greater conflict than Mr Norrell and Childermass had so far witnessed grew and became an unspoken source of disquiet for them both. Ciudad Rodrigo was only a short distance away and troops were already being moved and positioned to cut off any French reinforcements and supplies to the formidable fortress city. All the while this was occurring Wellington’s heavy artillery made its slow journey along muddy and rutted roads to where it would take its place in the coming siege. 

Despite this imminent threat or perhaps because of it, talk had turned to Christmas and to loved ones that remained in England. The attack on Ciudad Rodrigo would not begin until January. The staunchly Catholic Spanish and Portuguese troops that were so vital to Wellington’s success had refused to fight, unless under direct attack, during the twelve days of Christmas. The great many Irish catholics who were soldiers under Wellington’s command were in agreement with their Catholic brethren, and decent within his own army was not something that he could afford to court. So there was the unspoken agreement that nothing would occur until the sixth day of January had passed, then the full might of the British army would be unleashed upon it.

It was a strange and melancholy time, where each small pleasure seemed to take on a greater significance and poignancy, for upper most in the minds of common soldiers and officers alike was the fear that this Christmas, one which would be spent so far from home and family and with few of the comforts and cheer of the season, could be their last. 

Despite his fretful nature Mr Norrell seemed no more effected by these thoughts than was his usual level of discomfort. There were those who, not knowing Mr Norrell, might have claimed that it was due to the staunch heart to be found in every true English gentleman. There were of course those who would have claimed his lack of affectation was due to the fact that he was not capable of liking anybody enough to miss them. Neither was true, although it has to be said that this second estimation was close to reality than the first. The truth of the matter was that Mr Norrell had never been the kind of man to host or attend lavish Christmas parties and he had no family with which to celebrate, and so found he did not miss the preparations or festivities very much at all. 

This is not to say that that he was a miserly employer or one who had prevented the servants in his household from celebrating. He had no objection to their festivities as long as they did not require him to take part in anything so undignified as singing or dancing or disturbed him in his library [1]. Indeed Mr Norrell’s staff both at Hurtfew and at Hanover Square had often found the festive period a deal quieter than at other times of the year, and especially so when compared to what was required of servants in other households. 

It was an accepted thing for an employer to gift his staff a small token of his appreciation for their hard work during the past year. Mr Norrell, while participating in this tradition, did not chuse these gifts himself, delegating the task to Childermass. For Childermass himself however he always made the effort of arranging something, usually whichever item of clothing he wore that appeared the most threadbare in the November of each year, for it seemed a poor thing to expect a person to buy a gift to give to themselves. 

Despite their current situation a great many miles from home Mr Norrell found no reason not to continue with this tradition. As a consequence of this he arranged for a suitable pair of boots to be found that he might give them to Childermass. This was a very practical gift, and as such he thought it would be well received, for the ones that Childermass already owned had been well worn before they had departed England and had started to leak little more than a month after they had left Almeida. [2]

Servants did not give gifts to their employers and it was usual, at least until Mr Norrell moved to London and people started to court his influence, that he would not receive a gift at all. These recent attempts to gain favour through the purchase of gifts were not events that Mr Norrell welcomed, for he felt obliged to appear grateful to them, even when the wine or spirits he was given would almost certainly remain undrunk and the sweets uneaten. Indeed he found it a great deal easier on his nerves to receive nothing at all and thereby not be obligated to be nice to people he barely knew.

If Mr Norrell seemed unaffected by the season, apart from his frequent complaints about how cold he was then Childermass appeared to have taken the melancholic mood on thoroughly enough for the both of them. Often at the end of the day he could be found as a brooding presence huddled in his greatcoat by the camp fire, seemingly lost in thought, his dark eyes watching something unfathomable and seen only to him in the depths of those flames.

This worried Mr Norrell for it was most unlike Childermass to behave in such a manner. Yet in all other things he seemed his usual self, so he had reasoned that it could not be a serious matter that was causing him to act so. Eventually, not having asked Childermass what it was that troubled him, he came to the conclusion that he was homesick for Yorkshire and the friends that he had there, and with whom he would customarily spend at least an evening or two in the company of over the Christmas period. 

Not a sociable person by nature, it might come as a surprizing fact that Mr Norrell was not entirely lacking in feelings and understood with clarity born of experience that loneliness was not merely a product of the lack of people, it was the lack of certain individuals. He was also aware that at certain times this loneliness could feel more encompassing than at others. Mr Norrell knew that Childermass’ parents no longer lived and that he had no brothers and sisters, and while he had never pressed for greater detail from him than this, he supposed it was conceivable that there were uncles, aunts or cousins that he might still miss. He had always seemed close to the servants too, Hannah in particular, and while Mr Norrell was almost certain that nothing of an intimate nature had ever passed between them he knew that it was possible to miss a friend as keenly as to miss a lover, for he felt the lack of Mr Strange deeply.

There seemed little point in trying to talk of such things in Mr Norrell’s opinion as there was nothing that could be done to remedy the situation. The only thing that would resolve it was an end to the war and a return to their quite, comfortable life in London and Yorkshire. Maintaining normality in all other things, he was sure was the best and most reassuring course of action, so he spoke not of his suspicions less it lead to any form of awkwardness or uncomfortable conversations between them.

 

Christmas Day dawned cold and damp, and Mr Norrell found he missed the cold crispness of the frost or snow which would have been the prevailing conditions back at Hurtfew. The scent of mud, wet canvass and damp horses did not allow for him to imagine even for a moment that he was back in his own home with the promise of a warm fire and an uninterrupted day of reading.

Unusually Mr Norrell was the first to wake, and as such slipped from the bed to retrieve his gift to Childermass, which Major Grant had brought to the tent late the previous night. Not a stealthy man by nature, the act of getting out of bed had woken Childermass. He lay amongst the blankets watching his employer with a curious expression. 

Finding what he had been looking for, Mr Norrell held out the boots to Childermass. “I believe these will fit you and will not be too large. Although I suppose you might wear two sets of stocking if they are.”

“I had not thought you would be able to find anything,” Childermass said, genuinely surprized that Mr Norrell had taken the effort to do this and that he had managed to keep it a secret. He had been certain until then that the other man was quite unable to do such a thing. 

“I rely upon you for many things, but I am not completely helpless without you,” Mr Norrell said, rather put out by what he felt must be slight against him in some way. “I had Major Grant keep them safe, for I did not wish you to see them before today.”

“And a very nice surprize they are too.” Childermass pulled on the boots as he did not want to cause offence. He looked a rather strange sight as he wore only a shirt, his hair untied and and hanging in tangled disarray after a nights sleep. They fit well and were of far better quality than the pair he had previously worn. “I could not have wished for a better gift, sir. Thank you.” 

“I could not bear your cold, damp feet one night longer,” Mr Norrell said, finding himself suddenly uncomfortable in the face of genuine gratitude. “I thought it sensible to remedy it less they gave me a chill.”

“I’m glad for it. Here I have a gift of my own to give to you,” Childermass said, taking a brown paper wrapped parcel from the pocket of his greatcoat that lay across their bed. He placed it into Mr Norrell’s hands. “It is but a small thing, although I hope they will please you.”

Mr Norrell was so surprized by this event that he stared at the parcel for sometime before carefully untying the string that held the paper closed. The contents were then revealed as a pair of well made grey leather gloves, the inside lined with lambs fleece.[3] 

“They are wonderful,” Mr Norrell said, putting on the thick, warm gloves at once, for his hands were almost always cold. “But you should not have, it is not your place to buy gifts for me.”

“I did not buy these as your servant,” Childermass said, for he had expected such a reaction and rather than being hurt by apparent dismissiveness of it, it he found himself rather touched that Mr Norrell should not have expected a gift from him or anyone else that year. He took the small, gloved hands in his own. “I bought these as your friend, as your lover. I did it to see you smile, nothing more.” 

“Oh.” Mr Norrell looked down at the gloves and the hands holding his, his small, watery eyes widening in surprised and then he smiled. “Thank you,” he said sounding quite overcome. “I do not think I have ever had such a thoughtful gift.” 

Childermass smiled fondly at him and then said, “Merry Christmas.” He then pressed a kiss to the other man’s forehead and then pulled him close. Mr Norrell found he was unable to reply so overcome did he feel by this quiet display of affection, he leant into the embrace and remained there for some time, until Childermass remarked that they should dress for the day ahead.

Christmas Day, despite the limitations that being at war placed upon them, was for the most part a pleasant affair. After the Christmas service led by the army chaplain, Mr Norrell was invited to dine with the officers, while Childermass found himself with the servants of the other senior officers. It was not where either of them would have preferred to be, or at least not separately, but it was what society dictated of them, so after sharing another kiss in the privacy of their tent they went to where they were expected. 

Mr Norrell stayed close to Major Grant for he had found him to be an understanding person and not one given to making fun of his discomfort with such social activities. Grant, as well Colonel de Lancey and even Wellington himself were in jovial mood, reminiscing about a party they had attended in India a number of years before that had lasted for more than a day. The idea of such a party Mr Norrell found quite baffling and not a little distressing to contemplate. So when he was asked of his opinion of such events he had declared that they did not agree with him and that he would have preferred to stay at home to read. 

The Christmas celebrations had not been too terrible an experience Mr Norrell decided when it came time for him to leave, for Grant had made sure that that he was not excessively swamped with conversation nor ignored entirely. Despite this reassurance Mr Norrell felt it only prudent to leave before the evening had the opportunity to turn too raucous, as he remembered only too well the embarrassment of the last occasion when he has stayed late with officers who had been drinking and had no wish to repeat such an experience. 

His new gloves kept his hands warm as he walked through the camp to his tent and he found himself in rare good spirits as he passed the common soldiers sat around camp fires. Drink and song seemed to be the order of the evening, much as it had been for the officers, with some chusing carols or religious pieces, although most songs were about home and the sweethearts who waited for them there. So it was with a degree of smugness that Mr Norrell continued on his way to his tent. The certain knowledge that he did not have to wait until some distant point in the future when he returned to England for any such intimate reunion producing feelings every bit as warm as the glow from the brandy he’s been persuaded to partake of. 

The tent that he and Childermass share was set a little apart from the rest, seemingly to reflect their status as not quite officers, but rather better than common soldiery. If the darkness in their tent was always little more complete than in any others and if no sound, not even of speech, escaped it, then none remarked upon it. There was no great interest in Mr Norrell from most of the army, who for the most part found him so unremarkable and dull in conversation and his achievements while useful so mundane that none sought out his company unless so ordered. Mr Norrell was so relieved by this lack of interest in him that he quite forgot to be offended by their tacit dismissal of magic.

Even with the protection the tent offer the weather had become too inclement for them to strip naked each night, but dressed in their shirts, blankets and coats covering them, Childermass and Mr Norrell had continued to sleep together, curled together for warmth and the comfort that they drew from each other’s presence. And when they could do so safely and without the likelihood of interruption they would find pleasure in each other’s bodies, hands and mouths working to bring the other to breathless completion, their sighs and gasps muffled against shoulders and chests, lest the spell Mr Norrell had placed upon the tent have weakened and they were overheard. 

Mr Norrell found himself rather in the mood for such things that night it was with relief that he found that Childermass had already returned to the tent. That he was reading his cards was rather less welcome and he scooped them up quickly and hid them away in his coat pocket. 

“I had not thought you would return so soon,” he said, neither guilty nor angry that he had been seen consulting his cards. The frown that he had worn as he had read them faded only slowly, whatever they had told him clearly leaving a lingering confusion in his mind.

“I find I prefer your company to that of soldiers,” Mr Norrell replied, after fastening the tent’s door flap behind him. “I have not seen you use those things for some time, I thought you might have realised how foolish they are.”

Childermass did not reply, although the look on his face said that he did not agree with his employer on this matter and that no amount of disapproval on Mr Norrell’s part would prevent him from using them in future. 

“We shall have snow before the week is out,” Childermass said changing the subject, as he took the other man’s coat for him and laid it atop of their bed. 

Mr Norrell look rather confused by this and asked, “Is that what you were trying to discern? It seems a very silly thing to me. What is the point of knowing what the weather will be when one is unable to change it?” 

“It was not,” Childermass answered in a tone that clearly said whatever it was that he had been asking of them was not something he would willingly discuss. 

“I shall not be cross with you, not today,” Mr Norrell said, certain he was being most obliging in this. “And I shall not ask you what you sought in them.”

“What will you ask of me?” Childermass enquired rather amused, for he knew his employer very well in these things and as such was quite aware of what the other man desired.

There was a flush to Mr Norrell’s cheeks, and he wondered if he would ever reach the point where he might discuss something of an intimate nature with such an occurrence. “I find that I wish your company tonight.”

“You have that every night,” the other man replied, but moved a little closer to him. “Is there something more?” 

Mr Norrell made a small, irritated noise. “I mean that I wish you join me in bed, and I would ask you not to be obtuse for you know very well what I mean. So do not ask me if I wish to sleep, for that is not what I desire as well you know.” 

Childermass smiled, it would have drawn a laugh from him but he well knew what the other man’s reaction should be to such a thing. “And I’d be glad to, so let’s get undressed so that we might.” 

Clothes were shed in a haste that was more connected to the chill winter air within the tent than impatient passion, as for all their intentions of intimacy that night neither of them had ever found the need to hurry these matters. 

“It shall be the new year soon,” Childermass said once he joined Mr Norrell in their narrow bed, having divested himself of all but his shirt.

Mr Norrell settled his back against the other man’s chest, and then made an dismissive sound. “I for one hope that it shall be a better one than this.” 

“This year has not been so terrible,” he replied clearly amused by the attitude of the fussy, little man curled so close against him. “Mr Strange obtained the Roxburgh books for you, did he not? And Wellington’s dispatches mention you favourably, people in London will talk of you with respect for all you have done. Even Lord Liverpool has warmed to you.” [4]

“Perhaps,” came the sulky reply. “But it’s hardly worth the danger to life and limb, nor the loss of my books, not to mention the cold, the heat or what is considered food here. No, this has not been a pleasant experience at all.”

“And there is us,” Childermass said, pressing a kiss to the back of Mr Norrell’s neck, where he knew it made him shiver with things that were about as far removed from cold as was possibly. 

“There is that,” Mr Norrell replied, the smile on his face clearly reflected in his words. “I find it hard to remember that we have not had this particular closeness for a great deal longer,” he admitted, for it was not something that he had thought much on. “The time when you were not a constant presence in my life seems so very long ago. I should not ever wish to return to those times. I was so very alone then and had nobody I could speak with as I speak with you.” 

Silence stretched out in the darkness, like some huge, black-furred beast that might as easily keep sleeping as spring to life with rending claws. Childermass, sighed in that darkness. That Mr Norrell could see no difference between those early days of working together and now troubled him, and he said, “And to the times when were only master and servant, would you return to those?” 

“Of course I do not, what a foolish thing to say.” With a great deal of awkward shuffling Mr Norrell turned over so that he was facing Childermass, or at least his chin. “Is that what has been troubling you so? It should not. Do you think I will cast you and this closeness aside once we return to England? That I should have the strength to deny myself this?” He pressed a hand to the side of the other man’s cheek and then kissed him. “It is shameful to admit I know, but I have not. I do not think there is anything that I should allow to part us.” 

“I does me no harm to hear it,” Childermass replied, fingers twisting into the unruly greying curls that framed the face before him.

“So there will be no more of this foolish worrying?” Mr Norrell asked sounding concerned that this would not be an end to it. “I am not sure how much clearer I can be on the matter. I may not be able to declare what I feel for you in any company but you own, but I feel it nonetheless and I promise that I shall not willingly give you up.” 

“I believe you” Childermass replied, his voice rough with all the things he felt he could not speak. “I shall not give this matter any more thought.” 

This answer satisfied Mr Norrell, as it was meant to do, and he made a contented noise as if to suggest he thought that all was now well with his world. After a moment he tugged at Childermass’ shirt sleeve, to indicate that he wished him to move. The other man obliged, moving to lay atop of him, to cover him and to shield him from the world that could all too often seem too cruel a place. 

Warm and safe in the darkness of their tent, where nothing else mattered but each other they kissed and found their pleasure in each other. The new year would come and it would bring with it changes as all new years are apt to, and whether they would be for good or ill none would be able to say until they occurred. For that night however and for the next few nights to come at least there would be peace and contentment in each other’s company. 

 

THE END

(For now at least, as there will be a sequel about Mr Norrell’s and Childermass’ continuing adventures during the Peninsular War, which will be written and posted in due course.)

 

[1] Disturbing Mr Norrell in his library would have been a feat indeed, given the nature of the spells he had placed upon it and the distance from servants quarters and the kitchens it is quite probable that they could have placed a regimental marching band in those places and he would have remained in none the wiser to it. 

[2] There was also an element of self interest in giving new boots, as he had found Childermass’ feet to be unpleasantly cold when he joined him in bed, the damp that had leaked in through the other man’s shoes seeming to have leached all warmth from them. As such Mr Norrell rather thought that helping to ensure that Childermass’ feet stayed warm and dry was rather like giving a gift to himself

 

[3] The gloves had come to Childermass quite by chance when they had still been in Almeida. He had long known in the uncanny way that he had that they should still be abroad when Christmas came and that given Mr Norrell’s and his new found intimacy that a gift would now be appropriate. In the past, despite the fact it would have been unseemly for him to give a gift to his employer he had always found a way, whether it was only to make sure that there was a type of food or sweet that Mr Norrell liked was bought or prepared, or that news of a book he had not yet managed to acquire came to him. 

Such a gesture was difficult to arrange while at war, so it had been with satisfaction that he had come across a glovers shop where the proprietor was in discussion with a customer over the problem of a pair of gloves that had been made too small. Once the original buyer of the gloves, dissatisfied as he could not wear his purchase and telling the unfortunate glover that the offending items were too small for any normal man to wear, had left Childermass had purchased them at a reduced price, safe in the knowledge that they would be a perfect size for Mr Norrell. 

 

[4] What Lord Liverpool had actually remarked was that he found Mr Norrell’s presence as magician to the Admiralty a great deal more pleasurable experience when they were in different countries. Mr Strange, when relaying this information to Mr Norrell, had been tactful enough to couch it in better terms. 

 

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A/N

This is it for now. There is going to be a sequel (mostly planned out) following what happens in the following year as Wellington’s Peninsular campaign progresses into Spain. It will likely be a few weeks until it appears however as I’ve not really got much free time to write at the moment. There is also likely to be a sequel to the sequel, as I’m planning one fic for each year of the Peninsular War and then one final one about Waterloo. 

That the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo was delayed by the 12 days of Christmas is something that I am sure I read somewhere and can now find no mention of it. So please do not take this a definite historical fact as it may have been something that I misread or have confused with some other even. The siege eventually started on the 7th of January 1812. 

The party in India that lasted for over a day that was attended by Wellington and De Lancey is historical fact, although I am not sure that Grant was present.


End file.
